Present:
Harry feels like a coward, but really – how else could the situation end up? It isn't as if their affair can change both of their lives, bring them together for the greater good; it isn't as if love can overcome all and conquer every bump in the road called Life.
Harry sits in his house – Sirius's house, really – in front of a fireplace alone, watching the way the dying flames grasp and grasp for something to hold on to, something to lift them to life again so they can blaze with conviction and glory once more. He feels a twisting in the pit of his stomach, and he realizes as the embers dim and flames shorten that a voice in the back of his head is whispering, 'come on, you can make it,'. He hopes that by some grace of the Gods the fire can burn bright again, that it can overcome the odds and live fully once more.
An hour passes, and the fight is lost.
Harry is lost.
Past:
Draco stretches sleepily and snuggles towards the opposite side of the bed, dismayed to find it lacking the warmth he is greeted with each morning. He opens one eye and first looks out the bedroom window to find nothing but gray – nothing but dull trees and bleak sky stretching for miles. An uncomfortable wave seeps through Draco's body, starts in his toes and spreads through every limb, every nerve, until Draco is numb with realization: Something dreadful is going on.
He snaps his head to the side in an impossibly awake state for so early on a Saturday morning, and finds Harry's side of the bed smooth and unused. Hoping against all the signs pointing towards one thing, Draco leaps from the bed and takes the stairs two at a time without dressing himself first.
Kitchen empty.
Living room empty.
Life – empty.
Draco halts as he comes outside, defeat screaming from every pore and fiber of his being. He wonders, 'How could I have let this happen?'. Rain drops begin to fall from above and Draco raises his head, watching the wet orbs cascade down in slow motion. Nude, shivering, he isn't sure if it's the tears or rain soaking his face.
Future:
Harry averts his gaze, knowing all eyes are upon him. He can feel the incessant burning, the people begging internally that he is alright. Fuck them all. Harry absently strokes the petals of a rose he is holding, surveying the unusually sinister red hue it possesses. He can feel tears stinging with the threat of falling, but he refuses. Not here, not now.
And it's over, just like that.
Harry sighs softly and walks over to the coffin as it is being lowered to the ground. He runs his fingertips along the lacquered wooden coffin, and thinks to himself that it is no where as soft as the form it contains.
He drops the single flower and leaves, unable to bring himself to look back. As he walks, not knowing where to go, he thinks back to those flames, fighting and grasping and choking to survive. He knows now he has no choice: Harry will avenge his lover, his Dragon; Harry will continue this fight with more conviction than he ever did before.
Draco's death will not be in vain.