((For a well known and beloved reviewer… I'll do anything - hee hee - even submit to the will of the multple-shot fairy (who should be shot, in my opinion, multiple times) and write a second POV. Good heavens! Maybe I should be shot and put out of my misery. Hee hee.
Dedicated to Crimson Release, J.Nanderpants from "Luke's" POV.))
Dear Diary:
It's done. I think I might rather enjoy that phrase for a while. It is done, final, finished. I no more have to go into that stuffy room, stare at the barristers and wonder when I'll be free of it all.
I will know this date forever, but I feel no need to describe it beyond that. My life has begun today and as a gift to myself, I felt I would take the time to write my experience down, my feelings, and my life once it became that of another man's. I am another man.
Diary, I don't expect you to understand. For merlin's sake, it's not as if "you" will ever understand anything and it is only giddy joy that makes me take to whimsy in this way and address you. Still, I don't expect you will understand the enormity of this moment. Mother has wept for almost three hours straight and Delia has asked that I intercede. I hope I handled it well enough. I insisted we all go Out. Mother dried her tears for no woman wants to be seen in a state of dissaray, and Delia has been working with her to get prepared.
And in the lull, I've taken up quill and paper and begun to write an account. I am not too certain of what it will contain beyond a new life. Actually, allow me the audacity of capitalizing that. This book, will contain my New Life.
And it is done. Thank all great powers that watch over us, we are all finally free.
Dear Diary:
Delia brought home a kitten. She said it was to add it's influence to the apartment. Mother of course accepted Delia's choice on animal and despite my misgivings the beast is turning out well enough. A cat would not have been my first choice, of course. I suppose I'd have chosen something that hadn't hair and wasn't loud, didn't attack my feet when I'm trying to tie my laces or play with my papers, sleep on my keyboard, or attack my head while I'm sleeping. But then, that would have been a fish, Delia says.
I like fish, I think.
Mother is feeling better. She's moving around now. I worry about her. She's never felt well after Father's death. I suppose she always felt certain he'd manage to maneuver his way out of Azkaban. It was his way until then. Still, her depression has impressed itself upon her doctor and he's proscribed her some medication. We brought it home and I've been working on anti-depressive potions ever since. The medication, and while I've nothing against Muggle doctors, wasn't doing the trick. She was listless and she often said she didn't feel herself.
Last week, however, I managed to make her an appropriate potion and she's been much more alive and willing to engage in the living that is taking place around her. Delia says it's a good thing we've no need to go back to the doctor or mess with the drug dosages. Delia would know of these things. She had been on a cocktail of medications before she came to live with us as a foster child.
How, then is it, I suppose you'd ask if you were something to ask questions, that the son and wife of a Deatheater could manage to foster a child?
After Father's assets were frozen, I was not sure how we would manage. Mother, bless her heart, had her mind set on hiding in the Muggle world. I know I fought her on it in every way. But Mother will have her way. And it was not long before I recognized the wisdom in her words. A week before moving, to go outside was a practice in trying to have six pairs of eyes to see where the nearest hex might come from. Yet in our apartment in Wales, suddenly I could walk anywhere and while I would be stared at (I think tall, blonde, and indescribably handsome would cover that) it was never with malice or recognition.
Muggles didn't know of our history or Father's indiscretions. They could not be asked to do much more than come to our apartment, see we've food on the table and a gracious mother figure (Mother was always gracious and apt to put on a good show no matter the audience), as well as seeing that I was already half way through my accounting program. Some figuring on grades and such and I discovered that Muggle university is nothing in comparison. (Though I won't go into how embarrassing it was to ask how many feet the paper was to be the first time.) They called me genius but I dare say that Granger girl from Hogwarts would have managed the entire program in six months. For me, it took a year.
Fostering Delia was the best mistake we ever made. Mother had asked for babies. She wanted, I think, to find something innocent in the world we inhabited then. But they sent along Delia instead. A gawky, fourteen year old with a penchant for snapping gum (a thoroughly disgusting habit) and playing altogether too loud music. And of course, Mother fell in love with her immediately. I believe Delia reminded her of myself. Though I dare say my rebellion came in far more distinguished ways.
Dear Diary:
I've had an offer from the firm. They wish to move me up north, London way. Actually in London. Mother was hoping for Framlingham because there is a castle up there she's intensely interested in. She says it is some manner of magical historic site. But the firm has offered me a raise and an advancement in placement along with the move. I could not say no. Also, Delia has found a school of art in the vicinity. I'm to go up in early December and find us a flat.
Dear Diary:
London.
There is a part of wizardy I've missed. Apparation is something of a good deal easier than walking to and fro, trying to reach this flat or that. I rented a car but it was only so much good. Mother wanted the west side of London but I've since found the fees are much less astronomical North and I've found us a nice little flat near a small plot of greenery. It seems like this will have to do. I've asked Mother to come and look at it. There is even a fireplace that, should Mother wish, she could attach to the Floo Network later on. I believe she's made some friends in Wales that she'd appreciate coming into contact with again.
Dear Diary:
London.
It's strange to me to sit and write twice in one day. I have barely kept up in this book, most entries being anywhere from a week to months apart from one another. Yet I must write this down for I haven't anyone to speak to about it and certainly do not wish to bring it up to Mother just yet. I think I want her moved here before I tell her that Harry Potter is living in London.
I should have known that. But we've ceased getting any wizarding papers and with the world of magic having turned its back almost entirely upon us, I felt it no great loss in turning my back on it. Albus has kept in touch, of course. Without his help, I don't know that Mother would have managed.
Yet in London? He must have been making a quick stop. I saw him along the road side as I drove through on my way back to Wales. He looked well.
I think this is where my mind turns into an uproar. I cannot say I know what to think. Harry Potter. It was Harry Potter. A childish side of me wishes nothing more than to stick my tongue out at him and perhaps hit him with a hex. But this is habit and not anything related to reality. In truth, I think I wanted more than anything to simply stop, to talk, to ask him… what?
What could I have asked him? He is the first person from our school that I've seen (I don't count Albus. He's a rather frustrating individual, never saying what he means and keeping secrets in ways that I cannot find it in myself to understand) and it made me home sick. I am home sick. Suddenly I wanted the smell of the halls and the stone, the sight of Severus (forgive me, professor for my memories of you) sneering at the other houses, the sense of pride in my following, the sounds of wind and Peeves.
I am suddenly missing magic.
Dear Diary:
Mother has gotten us all up and in a whirl today. She wishes to be fully moved in by Christmas and God forbid, she wants a tree. Delia is all up in arms against it. She is willing to make a tree, but she's begun something of an environmentalist kick of late and the idea of a dying tree in the room bothers her. We've made a compromise and I've ordered a fake tree that I've had delivered to the new flat in London. We leave in two days.
Dear Diary:
London. For good.
Christmas has been a tad bleak. Mother began to cry when she took out holiday decor and we've been having a somewhat unHappy Christmas. We're free, Mother says. It seems right that we should be home, not in some beastly hole in Muggle London.
But we do have my personal assets unfrozen. Father's have gone toward paying off suits against our family name. It seems strange to me to be paying for mistakes Father made. I've argued to this very effect and gotten nowhere. Excuses abound and a great deal of money is to be divided up by a great deal of lawyers and their great deal of clients. I will say no more. The entire proceeding leaves a bad taste in my mouth, much like bile.
Delia has helped immeasurably however. The art school has accepted her and she's been ecstatic despite Mother's mood. I begin the day after New Years and, as she says, nothing could be better. Her peppy attitude has balanced things out.
Dear Diary:
Harry Potter. I saw Harry today at a coffee shop on my way to work. I take the train and stop off to get myself breakfast. It helps keep peace at home for Mother and Delia both have a lie in that way. Delia doesn't have classes until eleven and Mother's first social engagements aren't generally until afternoon tea.
He didn't look at me twice. I have changed. I've filled out some, I know. And Delia has had fun with my hair at times. It is a left over gold from this strange concoction she tried on it four weeks ago. I will have to try another color. I wonder what the firm would think of my going red? I wonder what Harry would say?
I have to laugh over that. And seeing Harry reminds me of the Weasleys and so many others that I've not thought of for years it seems. I shall have to ask Albus about them later. Mother says he's to come up next week for dinner.
Dear Diary:
I find myself going to the same coffee shop, despite bumping into Harry every time. At first he didn't notice me. And once he was directly behind me when the young woman behind the counter introduced herself. I told her I was Lucius, but she was welcome to call me Luke. I've found I've enough of a remarkable presence without adding the name Draco to it. And I wonder at times if some time apart from the wizarding world and my hair color changes, my deeper changes which make Delia laugh as she looks at my pictures, aren't something of a blind to hide behind. Therefore, Luke seems far more suitable and I have gone by it for the past four years now.
Yesterday, hoewver, he smiled at me. I pretended not to see. I was so uncertain what to do. He is a beautiful man, Harry is. He would hate it if he knew I was there. He'd probably tell me to get out or even worse, lose his temper and hex me into next week.
I wonder what he's doing in London?
Dear Diary:
The firm has accepted my proposal to take on the Morena account despite misgivings (and I cannot explain that I am certain of them for I know of the family backing the company - very Light family) over how some of their business is at times difficult to trace.
Mother has accepted the offer to go to France with a friend in March.
Delia is working on her first painting.
Delia's cat (She's named the thing Kip - of all names!) is sitting on my monitor. He's learned to remain off of my keyboard. I can't say how many times I've thrown that damnable animal across the room. But now that he's grown some, he is almost bearable.
And Harry Potter smiled at me again. And this time I smiled back.
Dear Diary:
I think I may have ruined everything. But I'm unsure if I did or not.
Today, Harry smiled at me again as I walked past. He offered me his table and I sat down. What else was I to do? The conversation was something strained on my part though he seemed to have done well. He asked about my sister, my mother. I realized quickly into the conversation that he had been paying particular close attention to me and my conversations with Peggy (the coffee shop owner, delightful girl). It frightened me at first and I wasn't sure what to say.
In the end, however, the truth seemed only best. Or, as much of the truth as I felt he could handle. I am still, despite my years away, a Slytherin at heart.
He has a coworker that he hates, it hope with more vehemence than he ever hated me. I don't think I was ever anything but Draco the Insufferable Git.
He also said how his name is James. And how he was named for his father like I was for mine. I was afraid of what to say just then. He had to have known. But he merely stared at me with that half smile on his face and I pawned it off somewhat well. I think I just moved past it, changed the subject.
He didn't run then. And he knows my "name" though he calls me Luke and he's said nothing about my being Lucius Malfoy's son. Is it too much to ask that he never find out who I am?
Of course it is. And I really ought to tell him soon. But I'm afraid I can't see any reason to give up the one joy I've had in my life beside Delia in over five years. It's been longer than that, actually. From before then, from the moment Voldemo
I can't even write the name. It sickens me.
And I recall now that I promised I wouldn't go into the past. I am not that boy any longer. I am free like I never was free then.
I asked him in the end if I'd see him again. I know that it was pressing the point. He's been there every day and if he doesn't show up tomorrow, then I suppose we'll all know.
Dear Diary:
The past two days have been marvelous. Delia asked what had me smiling and I wasn't sure I could tell her and not have Mother know at the same time. For the moment, she's holding her breath. I promised I'd tell her the minute I had a Real date. She laughed and told me that if I'm going out on dates then it must be marvelous.
I feel all I'm doing is writing about Harry. And suddenly I'm writing so often! But this can't last long and I want something to look back on fondly when it blows up in my face.
Harry had lunch with me yesterday. And today, he had dinner with me. He's talked about everything and anything but Hogwarts and wizardry. And he's not recognized me in the slightest. Or, I wonder at times, that he doesn't know me. And perhaps he too, is willing this into something surreal and dream like. As long as neither of us says it aloud, we can continue this way.
Let us hope we continue forever. Heaven listen to me. But I've never wanted anything so badly. He is everything he was in school and more. He's not so spiteful, not so afraid and angry. The wild feral quality is still there that always frightened me. But no longer is he caught up in his trials (as I see them now). Rather, he's grown in all ways.
He's smaller than me and tonight, as we left the restaurant, I almost kissed him. He's the right height for me to reach down and with just the slightest stoop, I would be able to claim his lips as my own. I cannot keep from that possessive desire to brand him and let all know he belongs to a Malfoy.
For what it's worth now. The Malfoy name has been dragged through the dirt for so long now I dare say his being mine would act as no deterrent. There is no fearful tremble at the saying of the name, no look of revulsion or awe. We are undone but we are free. So perhaps I could convince him to say I was his. I know the name Potter has a ring to it that will resound for generations.
And I'm dreaming. I've asked him out on a real date for tomorrow. That means I must tell Delia. And I'm nervous for tomorrow.
Dear Diary:
Kisses. I'm awash with kisses.
Mother was incensed that I didn't tell her at first about my affair with Harry Potter. Delia has been asking who he is and I've been attempting to try and take the anger out of Mother's telling, to interject some calm reasonability into the story. I hope Delia hasn't gotten the wrong idea. And I don't think that Mother will hate him. It is only her upset about Father's death.
Despite this, I sleep each night with a smile upon my face. And dream of kisses. What a delightful thing to dream of.
Dear Diary:
I am confused and yet happy. Last night we went out to dinner. We, being Harry and I. Then we went to his flat and he invited me in for a drink. I laughed and told him that if he was offering what I thought he was offering, I'd most definitely take him up on it.
The fact that he'd let me, the son of a man who would have happily killed him without a second thought, then gone on to finish tea and crumpets, into his living room was of monumental importance to me. I swore that my heart would have burst right then from happiness. He was trusting his school enemy into his home and, I hope, into his heart as well.
The movie had been of the kind that leaves one wondering where a good shag might be found. It was a romantic comedy; one of those that has all manner of couples, straight, gay, married, running about in it. And in this one, the gay couple weren't very flamboyant. And they were the only ones with a love scene. I wanted nothing more than to finish that love scene with Harry.
He didn't say anything about my taking him up on the "drink" that he'd offered. He just opened the door for me with that slow, seductive smile on his beautiful mouth. I followed him inside and didn't even bother to allow him to close the door. I think he might have kicked it closed later for it was closed this morning. But I was more intent on getting he and his clothing to have a parting.
How can I describe it? He was beautiful. He is beautiful. He touched me in places that I'd forgotten about. He made me feel as if I were sixteen, though I'm not far off. Yet just being near him was enough to set my body aflame.
And most beautiful of all. We called one another's names as we fell into orgasm. It was a pleading call, his name and then mine. And not the false names.
I fell to sleep holding him. I told him I loved him.
I hope that wasn't a mistake. I can't say I'd take it back. And I think he may have been asleep when I told him.
Needless to say, I woke up around five this morning and went to make us breakfast. His home has nothing in it, however and I put on his jacket and went out to get us something. I am unsure if he thought the same thing or perhaps he had an important meeting to go to. I'll stop by his place after work and figure out what happened. I can't wait to see him tomorrow.
Dear Diary:
I think it would be impossible to write more and yet here I am. I've been writing for a day and a half straight.
He's left. He's not been to the coffee shop. He's not been to work. They didn't know when he would be back. I'm terrified. I've missed something, broken something. I rage and then I stand and stare at the walls. I write feverishly and send the pages as I get them finished, I write letters on three foot long parchments. I can't say a single thing for it. All I know is that he's not answered his door bell, his telephone, his mail. His work says he's ill. But he's not at home. I've gone to his home, even gone inside. (Silly git hasn't got wards on at all!) There is the pile of my mail, left unopened.
I've been crying for hours. Delia and Mother have finally left me be. And I keep shaking because I can't cry, I suspect.
I love him. I love him and I've forgotten something. I've.. I've..
What if his crying my name had been in surprise? I said his… maybe it was that moment when he
No. I won't think that he didn't know. Too many signs have shown he has known who he's been with. It must be something else. I've written him every single possible reason I can think of that he'd suddenly not wish to see me. I've written him about how it might not even be his fault. And my biggest fear is that he's taken. No wards.
Dear Diary:
Albus tells me he is fine. Damned man. He knows where Harry is, I'm sure. I'll kill him. I'll go get my wand and make him pay for keeping my Harry from me.
Dear Diary:
He came to me today. I saw him coming. Evelyn told me a gorgeous man had shown up with my coffee. I had forgotten about picking up my order. I have a standing order with Peggy. I peeked over the top of my cubicle and there he was. Oh he was so beautiful! I almost fainted.
Evelyn asked if I was okay. Apparently I can look more pale. And I told her to give him directions the long way to my desk. I needed time to compose myself.
But I hadn't managed to find any more composure than before. Every footfall could have been his. They passed, passed, this time passing again, then pausing and taking a step back.
He cleared his throat and I thought I'd faint from terror. Here it was, whatever it was. I had no idea what to expect any longer. Then he said he was looking for me. Or rather, he said he was looking for Draco, not for Luke. He drawled it out, so sweet and low and I stared at him. I wasn't sure what to say, how to say it. Him, standing there, looking pleased with himself.
I know I had intentions then of strangling him. I went at him to do that. But it didn't come through in practice. Instead we were kissing and I'm not sure who changed it from a strangle to a kiss. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was him. I don't recall much more than my fear and the sudden relief as he was holding me close and kissing me so hard I thought I'd faint.
Evelyn is a dear. Have I mentioned her yet? She's the secretary for my floor. She's a complete dear. She helped me see that snogging sessions in the middle of the accounting room floor was not the best thing to be doing. Especially with her sister, Beatrice looking on. Beatrice had a decided "how cute" expression on her face when I happened to look at her.
So I took the rest of the day off and managed to get Harry into a taxi. Then somehow, I managed to not kiss myself senseless with his lips on the way back to his flat and I managed not to do more than hold his hand in the lift to his door. I managed a lot of things and they were all worth the fact that I didn't manage to close the door to his flat this time and neither did he.
((Thank you all for reviewing, reading, the whole bit! You're all marvelous!))