Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any other notion this fanfiction contains thatis related to the books or movies. I am not making any money with this.
It's cold outside. It's raining and yet bright, the sky is a bright gray that hurts your eyes when you look at it. The cold light leaves nothing untouched, turns everything pale and cold and the whole world is fading.
Draco sits on a corner of the slytherin table. There are no students there to complain about it, and no teachers to chastise him. There is only the pale grey light of the Great Hall's ceiling, and the empty chairs. Empty chairs at empty tables.
He doesn't think about the laughter and the voices that will never fill the Hall again. He does not linger over the memories of past Christmases and Haloweens. It's all gone now, and he just sits there, not needing to think. All he does is just soack in the cold, gray light.
Then he stands up, jumping lightly off the table and his leather shoes make a strange sound as they hit the floor. The floor is made of cold, gray stone. The clack his shoes make sounds cold as it echoes against the cold stone walls. They are gray and empty-looking without the house banners to cover them.
Draco strides evenly towards the door, without taking another look around. Hogwarts is dead. It has been dead since the end of sixth year, since the students stopped coming and the halls were left empty and cold.
There is no point in finding someone to blame for this. He doesn't think about the man who started the war, and neither does he think of the men who died in it. There's just no point. He just keeps walking, straight forward, following the path so well-known, so fondly tought of by people that, in his mind, are just thousands of strays. They have left these halls cold and empty. And now these cold, grey halls are dieing.
Hogwarts' doors open just slightly, just enough for a slim, blond boy to slip trough and out into the cold, grey light of the january afternoon. It's windy out, and his pale hair starts moving around his fast-cooling cheeks. He puts his hands in his pockets and continues to walk towards the schoolyard, towards the lake.
There, next to the still, gray surface of the water, another figure waits for him. Another boy, with windswept black hair that looks gray in the light, and with a downturned gaze. His hands are also in his pockets, and he stares intently at the water in front of him. Draco stops right next to him and remains silent. The other boy raises his eyes and looks at him, and his green eyes look grayed and sad, and relieved to see him.
Then the black-haired boy takes his right hand out of his pocket, fingers curled around a brown wooden stick. Pointing it at his own forehead, at a lightningbolt shaped scar there, he does not remove his gaze from the blond in front of him. He doesn't say anything, but there is a sudden flash of light that seems as gray as the light of the afternoon. Then he falls to his knees, and Draco has to catch him so he won't fall into the lake. The pale boy turns the body over and places it in his lap. He runs his hand over the icy cold face, but does not shut the greyish green eyes. He just leans over to look in to the face of the dead boy in his arms. He doesn't think about burning or burying the body. He doesn't try to imagine what the monument raised for this hero would look like, or how the history books would portray him. He doesn't think about anything at all, and his blue-gray eyes are cold and dry. He just sits there, in the cold gray light of the january afternoon, holding the last horcrux Voldemort had created and the last piece of his existence that is dead.