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Title: Reliving the Past
Summary/Challenge: The 7th year at Hogwarts didn't quite go as predicted at the end of the 6th year. Hogwarts stayed open, and return did Harry, coincidentally, after a short visit to Godric's Hollow following Bill and Fleur's wedding. But, there were noticeable changes in his behaviour, and everyone around him. What really happened? We travel from the end of the 7th year back to it's beginning, to discover and recount the most exciting of Harry's tales so far. (I know, cheesy, but hey, I'm new at this...)
Word count: 2546
Warnings: Strong language, sexual connotations, angst.
Disclaimer: Not mine, i'm afraid. All JKR's, apart from the plot and evil character manipulation...*evil grin*. If u'd have asked me that yesterday night, however, i probably would've been rather indignant(and drunk)that it was all mine...:P
Beta: Beta-d by the goddess that is moonflower_rose...any further errors are entirely mine...
A/N: This is set in the present tense, whereas from now on, every alternate chapter will be in the past tense – half of the rest of the fic is like a massive flashback. The other half is like a subplot called “Silence’s Story”, which will kick off in Chapter 2.
I hate him. More than ever fathomable. I hate him. I wish I could reach out with the flames of rage itself, and rip his very soul to pieces with such vehemence that there would be no time for even a grunt. I hate him. I want to shatter his ice-cold heart into malignant shards and throw them and scream. Scream my burning infuriation to the sky and cause the Gods themselves to quake at my almighty wrath. Why? Why must I suffer? What did I do wrong? I want to scream and shriek so hard, that my voice box tears and blood dribbles out of my mouth. He tortures me. Every day. I look at him and try to hide the encompassing hurt that he causes me; the hurt that can make me whimper in pain just from the thought of it. The diaphanous glint of his eyes sets off an indestructible fire in my head that takes over and shuts me down. I feel giddy; I’m tipsy and reeling from the pain. It’s like a thousand nails have suddenly punctured every part of my body and are clawing, ripping, tearing to pieces, not caring that I’m still alive and breathing. I’m going to die if he stares at me any longer; the pain is too much, and this time, this time I just cannot take it. I give up.
“You win,” is what is ripped from my throat in a hoarse whisper, so inaudible that I can barely hear it myself.
The last thing I see is his eyes; stormy, grey eyes, looking at me with so many emotions flitting across them it’s impossible to read him. I’m falling, falling into the sweet relief of darkness, where it waits patiently to engulf me and consume me.
Why do I get the sinking feeling that he’s staring at me? Again! Why? I cannot for the life of me understand why he just can't, or won't, just get over me. I mean for God’s sake, move on you woman!!
“But he can't,” my subconscious reminds me. “You gave him everything he needed, raised his expectations to heights that stars do not rest at, and then…then you killed him. You broke him into innumerable pieces, and spread them so wide that he couldn’t be rebuilt. You are directly responsible for his collapse, the breakdown of his body and heart, and the very disintegration of his soul.” The ominous last words of my inner monologue leave me speechless. Shit. It’s true. I look back at him with all the sadness, guilt, and anger and pleas for forgiveness, and it’s at that point that he falls, with a tear blazing a fiery path down his cheek, and a hint of a sad smile pulling at his lips. There is so much sorrow and love held in those fiery, emerald eyes that it causes my breath to hitch and my heart to stop; it thunders hard into a spiritual wall and bounces back, stunned. What have I done? I want to run to him, as fast as I possibly can, and prove my damn inner voice wrong. I want to hold him and tell him that I can save him. I want it to go back to the way things were; when we shared a passion so deep even the Earth’s core trembled. But I can’t. My legs are rooted into the ground, an impalpable force holding them there, almost as if the Gods are punishing me for my lack off respect and love that I have for this boy. No. Not this boy, this man. The piece of art that stands in front of me is a masterpiece by fate, so perfect that his perfection is concealed, only to be revealed when the time is right in front of the right person. Obviously, that person wasn’t me. As the hurricane of thoughts swirl around in my head; whipping around the emotions and miscomprehensions, so fast that it causes my eyes to water, I begin to think. I may not have been the right person to see this perfect man as he really appeared, I may not have been worthy of his love and care, and therefore, I may not have seen the perfections that he kept concealed under a marble mask, but it doesn’t matter. After all, is it not the imperfections that we remember in the ones we love? Is it not the quirky little action, or mysterious reaction to something unusual that we adore in our true loves? Then surely, surely I should love this man as much as his perfect partner, be it man or woman, would? Surely I should be able to love him as deeply as the deepest oceanic ravine, and to worship him like a magnificent divinity? My God, I’m getting all sappy; this is what he does to me. And that’s when the meaning of love actually hit me; a brutal wave of emotion slamming into me, knocking me down and rendering me speechless. And if that wasn’t enough, as I rose from the floor and gathered my scattered wits about me, regaining my composure and schooling my features into that infamous mask of cold indifference, I got hit again. This time though, it wasn’t a large, raw block of comprehension, this time, it hurt much, much more. Imagine someone throwing small, sharp needles at you. Hundreds, thousands, millions even. They have been heated above the icy depths of hell, and now glow hotter than white. Then, they are twisted, the serrated edges pulling and tugging at your body as a firm resistance is applied. However, they are twisted harder, the flesh now tearing and shredding like a wildebeest at the mercy of a pride of lions. Imagine that pain. The sappiness that I was feeling earlier and so arrogantly laughing at has disappeared, instead, the tears spring to my eyes for a reason I never thought I’d come across again. This pain is so bad, that no human, God, or any universal being would be able to withstand it.
“Now you know what he feels like every waking moment of his life since you unmercifully ditched him!!” my subconscious hisses at me, the emphasis on that penultimate word striking an unknown fear into my heart. The Ice Prince supposedly had no heart, but they were wrong. I do have a heart, it’s just that it’s the most fragile part of me, and the utmost caution must be taken when subjecting it to unknown emotions. Again, emotions are another thing I supposedly cannot feel. How wrong people can be sometimes. Always judge a person on their wealth. That’s what my father used to say. How wrong even the smartest of people can be. But fear; fear is one emotion that I know all too well. It has to stop. Right now. I look down at my violently shaking hands and force myself to remain calm and cool, and try to slip on the mask of arrogance and supremacy like the Malfoys always have. Malfoy. A surname that struck fear into the magical aristocracy of England for centuries. Known well for their derogative, arrogant attitude to life and everyone around them, but foremost for their incredible, vast wealth. My family and I have been respected by the monarchy in several major countries for as long as a system of status has been around. My name: Draco Juliannus Malfoy. A selfish, egotistical, arrogant twat. The imperfection that is the man of wealth, ever lustful and wanton, derogative and untrustworthy, lower than the dirt on the ground at heart, yet aloof with elegance and arrogance on the surface. On the other hand, the other side of man; noble and selfless, always ready to put the safety of others before him; Harry James Potter. It really does prove the old proverb; opposites attract.
Except…we aren't, and weren’t so antithetical to each other. Under the mask of braggadocio, the icy façade that everyone was so accustomed to, the inbred narcissism, was, and still is; I scarcely remind myself, a completely contradictory persona. Some would say I’m schizophrenic, crazy, whatever. I’m not bothered. That’s what the exterior barrier is raised for. To deflect the glares and looks of contempt from the people who dare to throw them at me. The way I was raised was so powerful that when I’m around the people that I really care about, I struggle to keep the Malfoy exterior down, and let my real personality show. People even suspected that my father used the Imperius Curse on me when I was a young boy. That’s the problem with being part of an exorbitantly rich family; you are raised to breed, like a horse, and nothing else. If you don’t comply with the ridiculous rules that have been laid out for you, punishment is in store. Or at least it was. A little boy might be beaten by his father, but a fast maturing young man with pride and dignity will not tolerate such acts. I can remember those days well. The utterly terrifying sounds of a freshly cut whip cracking through the hot, sticky air. It scared me shitless. The pure, unadulterated hate in my father’s eyes, the blackest obsidian, burnt right through me like the hottest poker. I was always a good liar; it was a talent of mine that I’d discovered at a very early age, and plus the natural Occlumency trait that lay imbedded in my soul helped. But father could always see through the smog of lies that I conjured up. I learnt to be completely truthful with him, simply because “daddy” would “teach” me a lesson or two about lying to your elders in addition to the punishment I was to receive otherwise. The pain that I experienced earlier came flooding back, and once again, the tears sprang to my eyes, but this time in memory of my childhood.
“If you can call that a childhood” Mr. Subconscious retorts bitterly. I surprise myself at that sheer bitterness. It has filtered into my life, and affects me and consequently the people around me so subtly yet powerfully, I’m blind to it.
“What the…hey! HEY!! Harry!!?? HARRY!!?? Shit! FUCK!!” I scream, far past caring about the expletives being issued from my mouth. “Someone get help!!! Quick!!!”. I was not going to stand here and let my best friend die. I didn’t actually know if he was dying or not, but he was lying on the floor, and not responding to my frantic yells. Not coherently anyway… Whether or not that was because I had deafened him beyond reality, or whether he was actually dying was not really something I wanted to think about at the moment.
“Oi!! You!!” I grab some trembling Hufflepuff first year that was stupid enough to stick his bloody nose into a situation where I’m panicking. “Stop staring you flipping twit!! Get off your fat arse and get McGonagall or someone!!! Did you get that, MORON??!!”. The sight of me roaring at this terrified little child, spittle flying everywhere as I purpled rather alarmingly, my hands waving wildly as I gesticulated ridiculously, was, suffice to say, rather menacing and even traumatic… Not that that was always a bad thing… My heart started pounding rather hard in my chest, and the thunder in my ears began. If I didn’t know any better, this was the very same feeling I got before two events occurred. The first one was mind-blowing sex with Hermione, and the second was when I could feel the blood racing around my veins in fury. The infamous Weasley temper was rising… I don’t know how and why sex and anger is connected, and I will assure you that I do not revel in extremities of sex that border on rape. It’s just my fucked up brain deciding that I need to be horny and angry and the same time. Right now though, right now, all thoughts of sex and gorgeous women have been banished from my mind completely. Which is rather strange, I might add, because as most men can relate to, there’s always something to do with sex going on in my mind; however distant and remote, it always links up with sex. It’s one of the problems being a hormonal bloke experiencing puberty. But now, all my attention is focused on the greatly suffering man in front of me, who I will not lose. Now, I’m livid. Absolutely livid. Seething to the point at which I could easily stun half the occupants of the Entrance Hall without batting an eyelid, or, for that matter, be anywhere near a wand. My abilities in wandless magic were kick-started after what Snape did to Dumbledore, and an icy determination to be an active part of Harry’s defeat of Voldermort. That’s if he survives this of course. The rage must be showing in my eyes, because it’s at this point that that bastard Malfoy saunters over. I’m just about ready to explode at him, for hurting my one true friend, because the guilt is clear in his eyes. I knew it. I knew I couldn’t trust that son of a bitch with Harry.
“What have you done to him you MOTHER FUCKING BI-??!!!!” I stop mid roar, which is rather surprising for two reasons. Firstly, it takes a lot to render me speechless. The second is the reason for this sudden lack of speech. I have never, ever, seen a Malfoy cry. In all my 16 years, I have never had the intense pleasure of witnessing it. I have however, taunted and teased a Malfoy, noticeably this one, and owing to my size, and sudden determination to defend myself with the strongest wandless magic known to wizarding mankind, defending myself against an angry Malfoy was never a problem. So, I was just about ready to ignore the tear blazing a fiery path down the young man’s very pale face, when he spoke. Actually, “spoke” is an overstatement. So, I might add, is “whisper”. He spoke so inaudibly, that without reading his lips and using the slightest shred of Legilimency, I wouldn’t have caught what he said.
“What?” I questioned, incredulity forming sharply in my eyes. No. He didn’t. He couldn’t. He doesn't have the capability to utter those two magic words. And yet I heard it as clearly as if he had shouted it at the top of his voice. And then I see the look in his eyes, and the breath is robbed from my lungs; my heart just stops. He meant it. The look of pure sincerity and utter sorrow in this young man’s eyes was so gut-wrenching, so unbelievably true and real, that words and coherent thoughts failed me.
“What have you done…?” I whispered back, my normally sparkling eyes now clouding over, turning glossy and bright until I was blinded by tears.
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