Disclaimer: All I own is the brain from which my stories come, and the hand with which I write them.
Warning: This is slash. Only slightly, but still slash never-the-less. If you don't like, don't read. Flames shall be used to toast marshmallows.
Maybe it could've been different.
Harry liked to think that. Yes. Elsewhere in the universe, everything had happened the way it should and they were still alive and Harry could still hear the birds sing and see the sun shine. Elsewhere in the universe, in a different place at a different time, everything was right.
And he'd carry that thought in his head throughout the day, and as he'd walk through the empty halls he could almost picture how it all had used to be. Sometimes he could even forget it was all just imaginary, and he'd hear the bell ring and see the students bustle about him. And he'd stand in the middle of the corridor and feel the old familiar stone beneath his tired feet. And he'd tread the same old path, and think up some poor excuse or the other as to why he was late-
"-Sorry, Miss, Ron stole my wand and I had to get it back, and-"
"-So you see, Sir, I was feeling really ill because-"
"-Please, Miss, Hermione thought we were in a different room today, so-"
"-Draco nicked a book from my bag, and I had to chase-"
- Then he'd reach the door, and find it locked, and be thrown back into the same old empty world he'd been trying to escape.
And other days he go down to the graveyard, always the long way with the gnarled trees and red leaves just like before, and sit and breath the familiar sharp crisp smell of autumn. He'd close his eyes and clench his fists and whisper their names under his breath-
"-Sirius. Remus. Ron. Hermione. Neville. Ginny. Seamus. Dean. Albus. Molly. Arthur. Draco.... Draco, Draco, Draco-"
-And he'd hear them, faintly. Just a whisper from far beyond the barriers of living and dead.
...don't forget your... your father and i… quidditch practise... do you want a… did i ever tell you about the time... can you tell me... wrap up warm... and how does sellotape work... i love you, i love you, i love you...
And he'd smile, slowly as if he'd forgotten how, and every so often he could kid himself that it wasn't all just the make-believe dream of a mad middle-aged man. And he'd laugh, and shake his head, and leave the flowers before wandering home, alone.
Yes. Maybe it could've been different. Perhaps Ron and Hermione could've gotten married like they'd always meant. Perhaps Neville could've ducked just a second earlier. Perhaps Molly and Arthru could've died old and happy, and before their many children. And perhaps, perhaps, Draco could've stayed and they could've loved one another as more than an idle war-time dream.
And maybe, just maybe, somewhere else and sometime else, they were.