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The Echoes Of Yesterday	By : Samaelthekind Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 17654 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- 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.

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The Echoes Of Yesterday...by Samayel

Chapter 38: In the Diary Of Draco Malfoy Part 2

Draco the Younger, Lord Malfoy, knew nothing in his mesmerized stupor. He cradled the book in reverent hands, and did not know that he stood with it so held. His mouth moved as he read the words like a litany, half known from memory and half as his eyes flicked across the surface of the page. What moved him was no part of himself, but another will entirely. He could not recall the door opening or closing behind him, nor was he conscious of his steps down the hall. His feet were sure on his path, but still he never lifted his eyes from the pages.

I've mused over these things a thousand times before committing them to paper. I hope I give them the eloquence they deserve. I hope the words don't fail me during these few hours I have to myself. I owe his memory more than some half hearted rambling.

Of Harry, I have seen what no other has known or seen. I glimpsed who he is beneath the overwhelming burdens of duty and fame. I'd count myself lucky if I had the right to claim luck regarding something so distant from me now.

Even his weaknesses are strengths. Not like mine. He needs another to make him all that he is capable of being, just as I do, but in him the need makes him seek out others to aid, to protect, to care for without complaint. In me it only brought selfishness, envy of others, isolation and pain. That tells you the quality of his soul, that he is good beyond all reason and a better man just by nature than most can aspire to become.

Without a purpose, without someone to love, he drifts and is uncertain. He is at his finest when his course is set, when he knows what needs doing. In the call to action he is swift and potent and sure...but beneath that surface is a man who possesses little certainty for himself. I coaxed a measure of certainty from him, made it possible for him to push beyond his limits and open himself to another in a way that wasn't possible for him before.

The things I know of him that I would never share. He was not raised as some ascending star of the Wizarding world, but by the most contemptible Muggles one could imagine. The subject is one he'd barely let pass his lips, and if I hadn't been so dear to him, so close to a heart that only opened to me, he'd surely never have mentioned it at all. He was kept in a cupboard beneath stairs, underfed and largely ignored, and used like a House Elf servant. Beaten and cuffed and kicked! The appalling nerve of it angers me still! To think of him treated so...it almost makes me wonder if my families disgust with the world of Muggles was justified. But he forgives even these atrocities committed against him. How large a heart must that take? To suffer indignity at the hands of others for so long, and forgive all without more than a few words of acknowledgment to confess that these things actually occurred. No spite, no rage, no lust for vengeance. If I seem a better person today than I was those few years ago, I lay the accolades at his feet because his example shames me so.

His touch. How I linger over memories of it. Sometimes I fear that time will steal most of it from me. I suppose that is why this diary seems less foolish now than when Claire first suggested it. I see the purpose of it now. I am less distracted when I commit these things to paper. I know they won't fade and disappear. Memory is fickle. In time it fades. Someday I will still have these pages to call upon so that the wonders I have known won't be dead to me.

Harry looms in my mind easily now. It's odd that my mind makes him so tall and competent and powerful. The truth is that I'm the taller one of us by several inches, but his presence is such that he commands respect and attention. In love he is timorous, gentle, diffident and unsure. His touch is respectful, never avaricious. When his hands touch you, when he permits himself to let go and hold another, there is no doubt that his feelings are genuine. If they weren't, you simply wouldn't find yourself with the chance to experience his closeness. It is something he would never give away for paltry reasons. I barely knew anymore than he did at that age, but I knew what others had spoken of, and with him I dared to explore those notions as much as possible.

Could anyone imagine adequately what it must be like to have him inside of them? To have someone so intensely private and self effacing, so humble and gentle, connected to you utterly and beaming with love and gratitude the whole while? It's food for the soul. I cannot recall ever having felt so good about myself or my place in this world until those first times with him. It wasn't mere pleasure. It wasn't exploration. It was connection. He gave, and I greedily took, but it was connection just the same. I could always tell that he was frightened of his own passion. Terrified of offending or hurting by accident. He needed someone to lead him and encourage him even in acts of lust. He needed someone who awoke in him the knowledge that he was strong, and powerful, and a sensual creature with needs and desires of his own. All this I gave him. I'm not ashamed at all of having felt him inside of me, teased to a state of eagerness and hungering to devour what I could offer. It wasn't foul or reprehensible, it was miraculous.

I suppose in privacy I should dare to be crude if it suits me. There's no point in being cryptic to a blank page to be read by me some day in the future. He shagged me rotten! There! I said it. It was glorious, too! Harry and I were young and lean and fine and he fit me like a key fits a lock. I couldn't have enough of him. Being close to him, feeling his breath on my neck while he was inside of me, coming so hard it was difficult to see straight afterward, was a luxury beyond price. His cock was perfect, full and heavy and well shaped. The stamina! Gods! He had the endurance of a draft horse! I've never come so much or so hard in my entire life!

I've always been a tense person, and when I feel great tension and stress it can be expiated in one of two ways. Vindictiveness to others just to vent the frustration, or lust. With Harry I found the salve for my tension. That man could put me almost through a mattress for as long and as often as was needed to put my mind right and make me as calm and giddy as I could have ever hoped to be. On those rare occasions that it was only us in the old Black house, we rarely bothered with a lot of clothes. Just wandering around the old place in shorts and undershirts, giggling like kids and amusing ourselves wherever we took the mood to do so. After a life of boarding school decorum and the horrors of war, it was like a teenage dream come true to enjoy so much lazy pleasure seeking.

Maybe I have wandered from the poetic to the pornographic, but who is there to care but me? With his prick in my mouth I gave him a pleasure he'd never known from another. He was my lover. It wasn't a thing to ashamed of, it was something to be treasured! We were both virgins when we found ourselves alone together so much. I ended that innocence without regret. He was the right one. He was worthy, and compassionate, and sweet. I was afraid of everything, and he made me feel safe again, when I thought nothing ever could. When he held me the world melted away and nothing mattered anymore. All that I desired was to be close to him in every way, and he let me have that closeness. When I woke up beside him the morning after, I felt like my chest would burst from happiness and my heart would soar into the heavens. Small wonder I immediately woke him up for another round! I knew that he had my heart, and that he'd hold it close and guard it with all his might from harm.

What I couldn't grasp. Where I failed. What I couldn't understand because I was too close to it all as it happened...was that I also had his, and that it was my responsibility to do the same for him. I didn't know how. I say it like that excuses something, but I know that it doesn't. I was still a scared boy who'd just seen his entire world shattered. I took all that he could give...and I was so grateful for it...but I just took and took. I scarcely gave...except kindness, and sex, and time. I know I gave what I could. I gave what I knew how to give and could dare to share. It should have been more. It should have been everything. Nothing should have been withheld from him. Especially not words of love. He needed them, and I should have just given them, but I didn't. He deserved so much more.

That is the poisonous truth I keep with me. For once it isn't just what I desire, although I do. It's a debt that should have been paid and never was. I owe him more than I can say, and I chose the most cowardly way to drive him away from me, to hurt him deeply, just to see if I could make him push me away and not leave me having to carry the blame alone.

It's inexcusable after what he endured. What he did for my sake. He did it. He killed the monstrous thing that Marked me. He gave me my freedom from the thing I'd bound myself to. It isn't important that I would have chosen another path if I'd been given a safer choice...the fact remains that I chose not to run at first. I took that Mark and tried to make my family proud of me. I failed them too, at the cost of their lives ultimately. He found the strength in him to live through a killing curse, only because his heart was full of love for me. Because he hungered only to see me again, never to leave me alone and afraid.

I was in the hospital when he was there. I went every night. The war was over and my movements were unrestricted. He lay there, still and silent and pale, comatose and lost to us. Weeks of it. I came every night when the others were away. I didn't let them see me, craven and weeping because I was afraid he'd never come back to me. It was exhausting. I have survived Crutiatus curses, beatings, starvation and terror...but I have never endured anything as awful as that lingering and constant vigil over my lover's near-corpse. I was almost mad with grief the entire while. The rest of them didn't need to know. I couldn't bear the idea of causing a scene when all I wanted was to be near him quietly. I left each morning before dawn. Only the nurses ever knew, and they were kind enough not to ask questions, but I think they knew more than they said. They could have guessed. Who but a lover would weep and pray all night, day after day, for some small sign of life from a loved one of the same age and gender? I was clearly no parent, no teacher. His friends gathered publicly around him by day, wept together, brought flowers and comforted one another. I came in secret, only by night, and I agonized alone in that room as the days passed with no sign of relief.

I mentioned that I prayed. I had not mentioned that it wasn't a habit of mine until then. I couldn't think of what else to do. I felt helpless, utterly unable to influence the outcome of things...and so I prayed. I promised everything and anything, to any deity that would listen. I swore I'd be a better person, be worthy of respect, be good to the people around me and to the loved ones in my life. If only Harry would live and breathe and walk again. If I could hear that voice, or look into his eyes and see the warmth and spark in them once again. And I did. I may never be a pious person, I have no faith of my own. But even if it was by chance, those prayers were answered. I offer a moment of silent thanks at the end of each day, to anyone or anything that is listening, because I lived to know that he was well and alive and a part of the world again.

It was hell after he awoke, and heaven, all at the same time. So many emotions I couldn't hold them all. It all became real. He hinted at plans for the future. Our future. He had dreams and ideas and hopes and goals. Things we'd see together across the length and breadth of years. Changes in how we'd live and where we'd go and what we'd do. And in my heart I was terrified of a future that would be alien and unknowable, even while I rejoiced at his every touch, grateful just to be beside him again.

And then I betrayed him and left him aching and full of sorrow and anger, with a gambit half based on my own bravado and the vain hope that he wouldn't fall for it. I wasn't faking the desire to have a family. Not entirely. But if he'd cracked, if he'd been weak and begged me to stay no matter what else I did...I couldn't have resisted him. If he'd felt no anger at me for suggesting something so outlandish...I wouldn't have been able to do it. It would have broken me to see him beg, and I wouldn't have been able to walk away. In some ways, I am thankful that he is such a rightfully proud creature...and in other ways I lament that I chose to love someone so strong that they could stand alone and refuse to indulge my foolishness. I can remember the feel of his fist striking my face even now. Not the pain...that faded quickly enough. I remember the exultant joy that came of adrenaline and knowing that I'd escaped my responsibility to him and had just cause to walk away, punished at least a little for my crimes against him.

It was the least I deserved, from a lover who gave all, even up to his own life, and was recompensed with only abandonment.

TBC
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The Echoes Of Yesterday