The Echoes Of Yesterday

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 24: Memory


Ron Weasley flipped through folders and files, textbooks and copious notes, trying to make sense of Harry’s records and class schedules. Flight instruction hadn’t prepared him for this level of paperwork, nor for this level of preparation.

Admittedly, he was brilliant at what he knew, and he’d long ago expanded the flight and broom-care lessons available at Hogwarts, which now included a brief course for older students who wanted to specialize in the field or pursue Quidditch as a potential career. Even so, Ron’s class load was quite light. Lighter even than Hagrid’s. Stepping into Harry’s shoes and temporarily handling seven years and four houses worth of DADA classes was a monumental chore, and it was one he took quite seriously.

Ron was fairly gifted in certain aspects of DADA, and the war was responsible for that, but Harry’s comprehensive knowledge had come from spending those first years after the war as an Auror, then as a teacher researching the subject with an intensity that surprised everyone. The result was a man who was familiar with nearly every known spell for DADA and their applications. Ron couldn’t match that overnight, but he could probably hold out for a couple of weeks and keep the dueling practice on par.

Probably.

The first and second year classes had been easy. The third and fourth had been fairly tolerable as well, but after fifth year, dueling practice was more closely intermingled with standard assignments, and keeping up with it was difficult at best, and downright exhausting to boot!

Seventh year Slytherins and Gryffindors would be gathering for their DADA class in less than an hour, and he still hadn’t found the curriculum overview for that year’s students. In a worst case scenario, he could wing it and walk them through some standard dueling, but it would be a source of personal embarrassment to hare off in a new direction because he couldn’t find a few bloody slips of paper.

“Bloody, buggery fuck-all!” The expletives slipped easily from his tongue, which was a change of pace from home, since he hadn’t cursed in front of his children since his eldest had grown old enough to repeat things. The first time Thelma had spilled her juice and muttered ’bugger’, Hermione had put a charm on the house that spelled the taste of soap into the appropriate mouth! A week of that had seen the end of Ron’s habit for casual curses.

And he still wondered why she couldn’t have left a loophole for parents. Just a clause for emergencies. Like muttering a few under his breath when the girls hogged the bathroom in the morning. Four daughters. Four. All between age ten and five. Little Arthur was trailing along after the girls at age three and a half, but the male contingent of the Weasley household was sorely outnumbered.

Of course, on the bright side, they were the bloody crown jewels of his life, each and every one of them. There wasn’t a nap, or a cookie request, or a spill or bump that Ron didn’t adore utterly, and even when it meant spelling up messes and being the arbiter of a million tiny disputes, it was the most wonderful time of his life.

A time he’d be missing until Harry got back on his feet good and proper. The knock at the door pulled Ron out of his musings and he called out while continuing his search in vain, not bothering to look up from the mess of papers on the desk.

“Come on in! What is it? I’m busy!” ‘Like a nine tailed cat in a room full of bloody rocking chairs!’

“Professor Weasley. I’m supposed to see you about acting as an assistant teacher from now on. Just for DADA. I also have to ask you if you can make room for my apology in class tomorrow.”

Just the voice set Ron’s nerves on edge. Actually, it was a little higher than the voice of the Draco Ron remembered so well. More of a clear, high tenor than the father’s had been. Even so, the sound of a Malfoy speaking never boded well. Never. Ron kept his irritation in a stranglehold and concentrated on the papers in front of him, answering distractedly.

“Good! First assignment…help me find Har-Professor Potter’s syllabus and overview for seventh year classes.”

Ron looked up when the monotone answer began, expecting it to be some kind of sass. It took a few seconds before he realized that the syllabus was being recited, verbally…from memory, in its entirety.

“Hold on! Hold on!” Draco stopped, silent and vaguely bored looking. Ron put aside the paperwork and stared closely, scowling out of pure habit. “Are you serious? You memorized the syllabus? On purpose? Not that it isn’t useful now, but why in the hell would anyone do all that work for a syllabus?”

“It wasn’t work. I only scanned through it once when the class started.” Draco’s voice was a disaffected deadpan. Ron took a second to collect himself before speaking again. Mostly, he had the feeling that someone was pulling some sort of obscure prank on him, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“Right! Go on, then! Pull the other one! You can’t mean you just looked at it once. Doesn’t work that way. Now come off it and let’s just get back to the parts I need to know.”

“I’m not lying! It’s called eidetic memory. Almost photographic. I only have to read things once to remember them. Test me if you want. I can recite every textbook for DADA from first to seventh year. It doesn’t include total comprehension, which is why I have to study a bit for most new spells, just like anyone else, but I can recite anything I read or remember anything I see.”

Ron narrowed his eyes at the angry tone, but seethed as quietly as he could. The chat he’d had about working with Draco had ended with John Prewett threatening a long talk with Ron’s mum, and for all her grandmotherly sweetness, Molly Weasley was not to be trifled with. He’d inevitably agreed to it.

But that certainly didn’t mean he liked it.

“Okay. Let’s say that was true. All that aside, I am Professor Weasley or Sir to you, and don’t address me casually. Don’t forget that you’re a student on probation, and not a staff member! Just because you’ll assist me, it doesn’t mean that you’re a teacher of any kind. Now, I’ll take your challenge. I want you to walk the length of the bookshelf on the left, reading the titles in silence as you go, then turn your back and recite them to me in the order you read them. Do it.”

Two minutes later Ron Weasley was eating a rousing supper of crow, all while writing down notes regarding seventh year DADA as Draco spoke them aloud.

’A useful bloody Malfoy. Makes me think of ’Mione telling me about genetics and freak mutations. Never thought I’d see one though. Who knew? This is still a sentence to hell, but at least they sent along a small, grumpy, air conditioner.’

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Harry had finally drifted back to sleep after a light supper, which he‘d only taken in because Prewett had been adamant about his eating something. The food at Hogwarts was always good, but it still sat like a lump of lead in his stomach. The Dreamless Sleep had worn off hours ago, and his next dose hadn‘t yet been delivered. Hovering on the brink of slumber, memories came easily, suppressed by Dreamless Sleep the day before.

He’d been out of the hospital less than eight hours, and moved home to his room at Grimmauld Place. Friends had been streaming through ever since, along with allies from the war, right down to Mundungus Fletcher, who had shuffled in, wringing his hat, and apologized for nicking the silverware while congratulating Harry on his victory and survival.

One by one, the well wishers came, praising him until his ears were almost numb, but the one person he hadn’t seen was, ironically enough, the one person he most desired to see.

Draco. None of the others knew. Harry had been unconscious and unresponsive for so long. He couldn’t remember much, but one thing had flickered through his mind, even in the darkness of his subconscious. Draco, alive and warm and near enough to touch. That voice had echoed quietly in his head, even in slumber.

Only the medi wizard and medi witch assigned to his case had known anything of his memories from the final battle. They were the only two people in the world who knew exactly what Harry had thought of at that final moment.

Love. He’d been resigned to death, but so incredibly grateful that he’d lived long enough to find love. He’d wanted to live so much at that moment. He’d felt the spell recoil as he fell, but his own life was nearly spent in the process. He’d known that Voldemort was dead, felt it in his heart and soul as the world turned black, and he hadn’t even cared about his victory. What he’d wanted…was Draco. One more minute, one more second, one more spoken word or hungry kiss. Anything…anything for that.

He’d clung to the severed thread of life within him with all his might, focused wholly on living to see Draco again. He’d lived, albeit only barely, and only the ones who had healed him knew what had been hidden in the forefront of his mind. They’d promised silence, and kept it, and now he was home, surrounded by people he loved and who loved him, adored by the Ministry and the press alike, and all of it was hollow and meaningless because Draco hadn’t seen him since he’d woke.

Eventually the tide of bodies would recede, and the visitors would trickle away, and Draco could visit while others slept. They’d kept it a secret, this thing between them, but the secret had a price. The war was over, and everything was possible now. No more secrets and lies. The public would forgive anything, and as soon as they spoke, Harry intended to start on plans for the future. Life. Together. Forever.

Hours whiled away, and Grimmauld Place quieted slowly, as traffic ebbed and celebrants left, but still Draco didn’t come. Hermione and Ron were the last to leave, bound for the Burrow and a big supper, and only Remus remained downstairs, keeping the fire tended to and intending to keep watch over Harry at night. Despite assurances that Harry was well, no one wanted to leave him alone in Grimmauld Place with Draco, who was technically capable of leaving now that his inheritance had been settled. It was just confounding to them that Harry would insist on remaining there instead of the Burrow, and that Draco would choose to do the same.

Harry comforted himself with the reminder that Draco was still in the house…somewhere, and was probably waiting until Remus was safely asleep before visiting. That had to be it. They’d been secretive for weeks and weeks before the war ended, and Draco had no reason to reveal their relationship…until he spoke to Harry.

It would be a hell of a change, telling people that they were together. Some might not like it, and others might accept it but be less than enthused, but it had to be done. He wouldn’t compromise on this. What Draco meant to him…it deserved the dignity of honesty. It was too important to be hidden like a secret shame.

Harry had always been quiet…and more than a little shy. He knew why. Life with the Dursleys hadn’t really equipped him well for making highly public gestures. Or for risking the wrath of his friends and ersatz family. But Draco was different. Worth it a hundred times over. The feeling inside of him when he thought of Draco made him feel strong enough to handle anything. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t alone. He was loved. He could do anything, say anything, endure anything with that magic to sustain him.

Remus sat up with him for almost an hour, smiling mildly, still pointedly fretting over Harry’s health and well being, reiterating how proud he was of Harry, and how proud Harry’s parents would have been. The soup was thick and well seasoned, and Harry was starved, but it wasn’t enough to do more than make him a little sleepy and take the edge off of his sense of urgency. When Remus turned off the light and headed for bed, wishing Harry a good night’s sleep, Harry thanked him and closed his eyes, alert for every small sound in the house.

He’d nodded off before he knew it, drifting away on prayers for Draco’s arrival, and he woke with a start when those prayers were answered. It was the tentative tug at the covers, and the shift of weight on the edge of the bed that did it. Harry rolled quietly and opened his mouth to speak, finding himself stifled by familiar lips that worked hungrily against his own.

Arms slid around him and pushed him back against his pillow while Draco, still pajama clad, straddled Harry’s waist, never breaking that desperate, perfect kiss. The assault on his lips shifted to his neck and throat, and Harry scrambled to speak, trying to manage a whisper , but Draco beat him to it.

“Missed you…fucker.”

“Dra-Draco…weak…can’t…”

“Shut up. You don’t have to do anything. You think I’m crazy? Just let me do this…for awhile. Need you.”

The words were terse and short, laden with unspoken feelings and tinged with both joy and sorrow. It came to Harry then that Draco had undergone his own long wait, a hundred times longer than Harry’s. It had taken a long while for Harry to heal, and Draco had been alone the entire time, back to being the unwanted refugee, trapped in a house with no allies or friends, waiting for Harry to live or die.

He let Draco do as he pleased, lying still while the tall, slim young man astride him peeled away his pajama shirt, then opened Harry’s own, only to lie down on Harry’s chest, enfolded in Harry’s arms, face buried in the nape of Harry’s neck. The faint wetness that trickled down Harry’s neck spoke volumes, but Draco wouldn’t want any reminders of that.

They’d never spoken about things like that. Draco liked that Harry didn’t hold emotions over him…like blackmail, as Slytherins were often wont to do. Sometimes Draco cried, and that was alright, and Harry never reminded him of it after. As he saw it, his part was to let Draco be Draco, and if Draco didn’t want to talk about why he wept, then so be it.

It became clear that Harry was having trouble breathing after awhile, since Draco’s weight on his chest was more than he could handle after a few minutes. Draco slid to the side quickly, wiping his eyes on his pajama sleeve, then curled in close to Harry, spooning up behind him. It was odd, that Draco would prefer sleeping behind Harry and holding him, since Harry had always imagined that someone who…well…preferred the passive role…would be the one who like being held, but there you had it, Draco was a mass of contradictions, and a law unto himself, and Harry loved him that way.

Loved him. Harry remembered all the things he wanted to say, tired and wrung out from a long and stressful day. As soon as he started to whisper in the darkness, Draco stirred slightly behind him.

“Draco…I love you…”

The arms around him pulled tighter, and Draco’s head was only inches from his. The answer came…choked and nervous, full of unvoiced feelings that neither dared to touch upon.

“I…I know. Shhh. No heavy stuff. Not…not yet. Just…let’s…be like this. Just for awhile. ’Kay?”

And Harry accepted that with a quiet sigh, more than content in his lover’s arms, happy to be in his own bed, in his own home, and with the one he loved again.

Harry heard footsteps in the hall. The memory slid away like an eel, and reality came back. A bed in the infirmary. A private room. A life that was a hollow mockery of everything it used to be. These were all he had. Now. That time and place, with Draco, it was all gone. The silences between them…had been an uncanny omen of what was to come, and he’d let himself be blind to them, because it was better than risking what he needed most.

And he’d lost it anyway.

“Harry? I’ve got the potion right here. It’s a proper night’s sleep for you until I say otherwise. Tomorrow, when I’m not too busy, we’re going to have a long talk, and I think it’s overdue. Until then, rest easy, alright?”

John Prewett’s voice was all concern and comfort, and Harry nodded quietly, taking the flask of Dreamless Sleep. He drank every last drop, grateful for the temporary freedom it would give him.

TBC!!!