Title: Pain and Purity
Disclaimer: This story is based entirely on the story J.K. Rowling has written. She owns all of the characters, ideas, credit and copyright. This story is made simply for enjoyment and no money is being made from this. No offence intended. No copyright infringement intended.
Warnings: Eventual slash, angst, violence
Pairings: Eventual Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione
Summary: The final battle has commenced, and yet the outcome is unexpected. Neither party is declared victorious, and both Harry and Voldemort are not dead. Voldemort has taken Draco, and Harry is hurting.
Author's Note: I am very new to writing fanfiction, and constructive criticism and suggestions are welcome. I have quite a few stories I'm working on, most of them Drarry-related. If you're a Drarry shipper, take the time to check out some of my other works and tell me what you think. The next chapter of this will be up shortly.
Prologue
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Expelliarmus!"
A jet of bright green light issued from Lord Voldemort's wand, while red issued from Harry's own. The two jets of light collided with such force that the tremors could be felt all over the grounds of Hogwarts, where the Wizarding War II was currently taking place.
Harry had a sudden sense of déjà vu as arcs of light from the point of the collision began crisscrossing to form a dome encasing him and Voldemort, almost in repetition of the graveyard duel three years ago.
Once the dome of light had encircled them, beads of light began sliding up and down the connecting beam of their wands. Harry, recalling the memories from his fourth year, willed all his power into forcing the beads in the direction of Voldemort's wand tip.
For some reason, the Dark Lord was not, or could not, fight back. His snake-like face was contorted with concentration, and yet the beads were slowly but surely inching towards his wand, away from Harry's. Pretty soon the process of Finite Incantatem had begun. Harry watched with trepidation as ghostly forms, victims of the war, forced their way out and took up patrolling the edges of the dome.
Just as the ghostly shadow of a student in Hufflepuff school robes was forcing her way out, Voldemort seemed to come back to himself. With a vicious upward wrench, he severed the connection between the two wands. The dome vanished, as did the ghostly forms that had previously patrolled its edges.
Harry and Voldemort just stood there warily, both breathing heavily, drained from maintaining the Finite Incantatem. Harry didn't even bother raising his wand to defend himself against any possible attacks. He was both physically and mentally drained, and the crucial moment when the victory should have been decided had turned into a reenactment of the scene in the graveyard.
How was that possible, though? Voldemort had the Elder Wand, and he had Malfoy's. The ludicrous idea that perhaps the Elder Wand and Malfoy's were brothers, much like Voldemort's and his own, flitted through his head, and he wondered briefly whether that was even possible. How could two wands that had been made in two different ages share wand cores? He dismissed the notion for the moment, as there was a bloody war going on.
He was brought back to earth by the high, cold voice of his archenemy saying, "Come, Draco. Let us go."
Harry whipped his head up and stared uncomprehendingly at Voldemort. What was he going on about? Was he actually leaving without ending the war? Was he going without killing Harry? Would they have to wait for some other time to finish this? Why did his life have to be so fucking messed up?
"Draco," Voldemort hissed, scarlet pupils narrowing to slits as he scanned the Great Hall, searching for the single surviving Death Eater.
Harry wouldn't have blamed Malfoy if he had run away, or attempted suicide at that moment. Both seemed far better options than going to the Dark Lord's side, especially after he had failed at killing Harry yet again, and he looked mad enough to petrify a Basilisk.
But Malfoy was both braver and stupider than Harry had ever given him credit for. With the glares of everyone in the Hall on him, he went over to stand before Voldemort, staring fixedly at a point on the far wall.
Voldemort bent and whispered something in Malfoy's ear, who turned the same shade as Muggle skin-care product commercial models, before giving a shaky nod. He rolled back the sleeve of his left arm, exposing the Dark Mark tattooed onto the pale skin there.
Voldemort pressed the tip of the Elder Wand to the Mark, which glowed scarlet. The snake protruding from the mouth of the skull seemed to come to life, slithering and twisting until it was rather like a 'U' coming out of the skull. The process must have hurt a lot, because Malfoy had dug his fingernails into his palms so hard, there were ten bleeding crescents marked on his pale skin when he unclenched his hands.
Without another word, Voldemort grabbed Malfoy by the arm, and the two disappeared without so much as an Apparition crack.
At once, the crowd seemed to wake up from their stupor. They converged on Harry, demanding information, speculating on the outcome of the war, and what it would mean for the future. A crowd of Order members were already assembling to track down Voldemort and Malfoy, while others began tending to the wounded.
Harry wandered by in a daze, unable to grasp what had just happened. Why had the two wands refused to work with each other again? Could it be that the Elder Wand and Malfoy's shared wand cores? Or maybe Ollivander was wrong, and it actually had something to do with the casters? Would he and Voldmort never be able to just end this? Would they have to keep this up for the rest of their lives?
He refused to think of how many more wars, and deaths, that might mean. One war was bad enough. It had already taken Remus, Tonks, Fred, Mad-Eye, Dobby, Collin, and who knew how many others that hadn't deserved to die. He was so confused, and so frustrated, he wanted to scream.
He hated his life, hated the things he did, hated the things he had to do. All that being the Boy Who Lived had brought him was being the Boy Who Lived To See Others Die. He couldn't stand it. He just couldn't.
Harry whirled and all but fled the Hall, sprinting through the wreckage of the castle and out onto the battle-scorched grounds. He didn't stop until he was all the way out on the Quidditch pitch, where he just stood there and screamed. He yelled until his voice was hoarse, he cried until his eyes were stinging, and still he kept on screaming and crying, venting out all his anger, frustration and sorrow.
When at last he couldn't even manage a whisper, he felt hands on his shoulders, and looked to see Ron and Hermione on either side of him, comforting him. He couldn't stand how selfless they were being. Ron had just lost a brother, Hermione had suffered as much as anyone, and yet here they were, trying to soothe him.
Despite feeling that he should be the one comforting them, Harry was immensely grateful all the same. "Thanks," he said, though no sound came out.
"No problem, mate, we'd never let you go through this alone," said Ron, patting his shoulder comfortingly.
"We'll always be there for you, Harry," said Hermione, giving him a somewhat teary smile, "You know we love you, right?"
All Harry could manage was a nod before he had flung his arms around his two best friends, pulling the trio into a group hug. His heart considerably lighter, Harry made his way back up to the castle with Ron and Hermione.
War was cruel, it meant making sacrifices and enduring pain. It meant sacrificing your life to save the one you loved, or enduring the pain of living while knowing your loved one sacrificed their life to save yours.
But war was also a reminder of how strong love was. Survivors would always remember those that died, and learn to love others and treasure life. Harry knew he was lucky, that he had survived, and that he had people in the world who loved him.
The outcome of the war, and what it would mean, was a problem to deal with another day, another time. For now, he knew that his one triumph over Voldemort would always be love.
Harry loved Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Neville and many others, who also loved him back. Voldemort had no one. He functioned on hate alone, and had never learnt to love.
He would make sure the next time he and Voldemort came face to face in battle, he would teach the bald, noseless bastard why not knowing how to love was going to get him a V.I.P. pass to hell.
TO BE CONTINUED…