Title: Moving Mountains
Summary: Wherein a stand is taken, a choice is made, and hope returns.
Author's Note: Enjoy!
It's over, Draco thinks as he stumbles out of the room and loses what little footing he has. His father manages to catch him around the middle before he crumples completely to the ground and begins hurriedly dragging him backwards, away from the screaming and the jets of green light flying every which way. They turn into the study, Draco's toes clearing the hall just as the door to the dining room bursts open again. He can hear curses and shrieking and his father frantically muttering the incantation needed to open the hidden passageway before he's heaved back with a grunt.
The bookcase swings shut.
"Lucius?"
"He's fine," his father breathes as he tugs Draco into a dimly lit room. "We're fine."
"Thank gods." His mother's voice is soft, relieved. Draco opens his mouth to assure her that no, he is not fine – none of them are fine, none of them will be fine ever again – but a pathetic whimper is all he can seem to manage and so his bleak thoughts go unsaid. "What happened?"
"Potter stole something from your sister's vault," his father tells her. "A cup of some sort."
When his mother doesn't respond immediately, Draco uses what little energy he has left to tilt his head in her direction. Her brow is furrowed but she looks determined and for a split-second the overwhelming hopelessness he feels seems to clear, because nothing – nothing in this world – is more formidable than his mother when those she loves are threatened. She can move mountains, scatter stars, even snuff out the sun for her husband and son.
But no, of course that's not really true. Those are the foolish, childish thoughts of a defeated, desperate man and no matter how much he wishes for it, his mother no longer holds the power to banish monsters anymore. And Father, Draco thinks as those strong, once-comforting arms drop him gently onto a wooden bench, well he's the one who invited the monsters in, isn't he?
"What was he hit with?"
Nothing. No jinxes, no hexes, no spells – he was hit with nothing. But how is he supposed to tell her, this viciously protective woman, that he's finally found his breaking point? That he no longer has the will to fight? To live? That he wanted to be cut down? To be enveloped in green light?
But he's too weak, too cowardly to even die.
"I didn't see." There is a pause and then, "What now, Cissa?"
"What do you mean?"
"We must leave."
"And where would you have us go, Lucius?" His mother's voice is strained, impatient. "He will find us. No. No, we stay. We fight."
Draco looks up, hope flaring unexpectedly.
"I will not be held a prisoner in my own home any longer," she continues, fierce and raw and savage in her certainty. "I will not cower and I will not bend to the whims of a madman."
"You would betray our Lord?"
"He is no Lord. He is a man. A man who fashioned himself a name that would entice young, eager boys with too much wealth and too much time to his side." A pause. "But I am your wife. And I will not stand by as you choose to serve him before your family again. It's time to choose a side, Lucius – your master or us?"
But his father is gazing at his mother as if he's never seen anything so beautiful or brilliant or menacing before in his life, and Draco knows before a single word is spoken that he would follow her into the pits of hell and back if she asked him to.
"You," he whispers hoarsely, crossing the small room. His hands go to her cheeks and his forehead dips forward to rest against hers. "I choose you. I choose Draco. I choose us."
His mother closes her eyes and breathes deeply as she leans into her husband's touch. The moment is sweet, but there's power in it too – the power to heal and to inspire, the power to steady and to revive. And because of that moment, Draco finally believes that they will come out of this; broken, but together.
"I know you want to give up, my darling." His mother and father turn to him, a united force once again. "So if you can't fight, then I will fight for you. I will always fight for you."
Draco swallows and, somehow, finds the strength to stagger to his feet unaided. He pitches forward into his mother's embrace. His father's arms wrap around both of them a second later, reinforcing him as his knees buckle.
"I've got you," his mother murmurs into his hair. "Don't worry, Draco. I've got you."
Hot tears burn his cheeks as Draco sobs, because his mother's words are a promise – a promise to keep him standing, to keep him alive, to bring about the destruction of the Dark Lord – and they are a promise he knows she will keep. She will move mountains, she will scatter stars, and she will snuff out the sun. For them, she will do all that and more.