I'm rather fascinated by the relationship between Draco and Harry, though I've never written about them before. What finally decided me was when I found out about the cut scene from Deathly Hallows. That very same day I wrote this. I think it was originally meant to be a oneshot, but it spun out of control. You tell me how it turned out.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is JK Rowling's. The bits in italics in this chapter were lifted directly from the book.

Summary: After the battle, Draco has to deal with the fact that he saved Harry's life. Harry wants to know why he did it, but Draco himself doesn't know.

A Flare of Hope

It was all over. Harry Potter was dead.

It seemed so sudden and yet, at the same time, Draco felt as though his entire existence had been building up to this single moment in time when – it seemed – everything was about to change. He had been right, then, when he had taken the Dark Mark. He had been right, only a short while ago, when he had crossed over from the students' side to the Dark Lord's. He had chosen the winning side. One only had to look at the looks of despair on Potter's friends' faces, the tears that made their way through the blood and grime covering their cheeks, to understand that. The term Mudblood, he thought dispassionately as he looked at Granger, had never been more appropriate.

There was more than just despair on Granger's face. Disbelief and denial were clear in her eyes, and behind that burned the will to fight, to keep on fighting with everything she had, to die if she had to, for a cause that was now hopeless. That was something Draco couldn't understand, a completely alien idea for him. It wasn't just her, either; a whole crowd of students and teachers were shouting out their defiance, refusing to believe that everything was over. Their voices met and mingled in a terrible, haunting wave of noise, just barely intelligible, and Draco sank back into the shadow cast by the Castle and watched as a sort of collective hysteria took over. He felt oddly detached. His mother's hand on his arm was all that really mattered, her death grip around his wrist as she watched, her face drawn and pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. She seemed to fear something, but what? It was over. And they had... they had won.

Whatever Draco had imagined victory would feel like, it wasn't this.

A flash of light erupted as the Dark Lord brought his wand down in a sharp movement. There was a loud bang, and silence fell over the crowd again.

"He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds," the Dark Lord said, and that was a lie, everyone knew it had to be a lie – even Draco knew. "Killed while trying to save himself –"

Someone broke free of the silencing charm and rushed forward. In the deathly silence of the crowd, the word he shouted rang out with a cold clarity.

"Lies!" Longbottom screamed as he headed towards the Dark Lord, his wand raised, but it was foolish, it was suicidal, and with another flash of light from the Dark Lord's wand the Gryffindor fell to the ground.

A terrible, cold laugh filled the air, and the Dark Lord started to speak, but Draco didn't listen, wouldn't listen to that horrible, cruel voice. Instead he just watched as Longbottom set his jaw and painstakingly pulled himself to his feet again, obviously injured, swaying unsteadily from side to side, Disarmed and defenseless. His hands curled into fists at his sides and he was talking back to the Dark Lord, but then Draco grew tired of watching, too, because it was all so pointless, it could all end only one way. He unwittingly looked back at Potter's body. The Boy-Who-Lived lay on his side in the grass at the feet of the half-giant, his eyes closed, his glasses lopsided, the scar on his forehead hidden by his hair, his cheek pressed into the ground.

What did it mean to him, that Potter was dead? It meant they had won. It meant that nothing, now, would be able to change the path he had chosen. It meant that more blood would be shed and more lives lost in the hours to come, but with the hope beaten out of the resistors, soon, everything would really be over.

It meant that the boy Draco had spent six school years harassing no longer existed. It meant Draco would never get another chance to catch the Snitch before Potter. It meant that the one who had saved his life in the Room of Requirement earlier tonight was dead. It meant Potter had lost, and Draco realised with a jolt that while he had never been able to imagine a world in which the Dark Lord didn't win, it had also seemed inconceivable that Potter would actually lose. He, like the others, had been clinging to a tiny, ridiculous hope that he hadn't even known was there until it vanished.

Suddenly there was chaos, and Draco was ripped away from his thoughts as his mother pulled him roughly to her.

"Let's leave," she said, her voice rushed and panicked, but Draco didn't reply.

Potter's body was gone.

Trampled? No, no one would have done that. He had... disappeared. And there were more fighters now, suddenly, and the giants, and centaurs, and screams all around Draco. Things happened so fast they seemed to be a blur of motion and noise around him, and he stood, frozen in place, unable to process things fully, fear settling in his gut. The situation had gone from a won battle to a renewed fight and Draco didn't know why, didn't know what could have happened to change things so brutally.

Someone slammed into him from behind, and his mother let go of him. Draco found himself caught in the flow of wizards retreating into the Castle, fleeing from the giants. He was pushed forward, unwilling, and craned his neck to catch one last glimpse of his parents; they were together, looking around in panic, looking for him, he realised. "I'm here," he wanted to shout, but the whirl of the crowd caught him again and he was spun up the front steps and into the Castle.

It was all Draco could do to stay on his feet. Behind him, someone stumbled, then fell to his knees; he was quickly trampled by the crowd. Draco felt sick and a renewed determination to stay alive kept him on his feet. He ducked his head, not wanting to be recognised – but no one was fighting here. The crowd was a mass of Death Eaters and defenders of Hogwarts alike, and it would have been suicide to even try to pull out a wand – especially a wand Draco didn't trust he had full control over. He had taken it from Goyle after his mother's had been destroyed in the Room of Requirement.

The rush steadied somewhat a few feet inside the Castle, then disappeared almost completely as people realised who they were and where they were. The fighting started again, but the students were fighting a lost battle; their heart wasn't in it anymore, and he saw three of them fall in as many minutes. He shielded himself as best as he could and located a small trickle of people stubbornly heading for the Great Hall, weaving through curses and Death Eaters, ducking spells and falling rubble. He followed them, scarcely knowing why, and knew it was a bad idea as soon as he stepped inside the hall. It was packed with people cursing and protecting each other, and right in the middle of it all stood Voldemort, fighting – and winning against – Shacklebolt, Slughorn, and McGonagall. But there was no way to back out now, for more people still spilled into the Great Hall, eager to fight, eager to see this thing end, however it might.

Draco saw his aunt die.

He backed up against the wall, where hundreds of people were already lined up, and watched, his attention at once diverted from the Dark Lord's battle to the one his aunt fought, first against Lovegood, the Weaslette, and Granger – Granger whose cheeks were still streaked with tears –, then against the Weaslette's mother, fierce and furious, her wand slashing through the air with a fiery determination. He watched as Bellatrix taunted her opponent, watched as a horrific, insane laugh burst from her lips, and watched as Mrs Weasley cast a single curse that struck her cleanly in the chest.

He watched as she collapsed.

He watched, and felt so surprised, so numb, that he might have missed the most important thing of all, had not the Dark Lord given a terrible scream, immediately drawing Draco's attention back to him. His wand was pointed at Mrs Weasley, and she was going to die, and then... and then, as if out of nowhere, a voice rose that made the Dark Lord freeze.

"I'm here, Riddle!" the person shouted, loud enough to be clearly heard.

And then, in the middle of the hall, Potter appeared out of nowhere.

Draco couldn't say what he felt when he saw Potter standing. Alive. Somewhere, in the distance, a girl screamed. A flare of hope, relief, love lit up the faces of every ally Potter had.

"HE'S ALIVE!" a girl's voice screamed. "Harry is alive!"

Others picked up the cry and the news echoed throughout the hall. A loud cheer rose and fell within the same second as the Dark Lord and Potter locked gazes. The air crackled with tension between them, and the Great Hall was completely silent.

"I don't want anyone else to try to help," Potter said, not taking his eyes off the Dark Lord as they began to circle each other. "It's got to be like this. It's got to be me."

Draco saw Potter reach into the pocket of his robes, then freeze for a second. The blood drained from his face as he looked up at the Dark Lord, and for the first time, Draco saw fear etched into the Boy-Who-Lived's expression.

Potter had lost his wand.

Someone, beside Draco, whispered, "Oh my god." But Potter straightened again and resumed his act of bravado before most people could understand; his eyes darted left and right nervously, but he started circling the Dark Lord again as though nothing had happened. Voldemort didn't notice, he was, like everyone, stunned by the mere fact that Potter was still alive. They exchanged more words, and though the conversation dragged on as though Potter were desperately biding for time, it seemed like the Dark Lord wanted answers. Why else would he let Potter attack and insult him, again and again, with his words, when he could just kill him?

"I know things you don't know, Tom Riddle," Potter said tauntingly. "I know lots of important things that you don't. Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?"

He was walking the line between distracting taunts and actual provocation that would force the Dark Lord to attack. The tantalising thought that Potter might know something kept him from killing the boy on the spot. And Potter took advantage of that, played with it, keeping Voldemort alert and attentive. He went on, dragging the conversation on, and all the while his eyes kept flicking back to the crowd, looking for something or someone that could help. But there was no one, because he had told them not to interfere, and because hardly anyone had realised something was wrong; all were listening with rapt attention; no one wanted to step up between Voldemort and his prey.

Potter was going to die. That much Draco was absolutely sure of. How could he not? He was wandless, unprotected, vulnerable. And yet he stood his ground, baiting, taunting the Dark Lord with his words. Wandless. It went against everything Draco believed in. It was completely stupid. It was suicidal. And yet for a brief moment, Draco admired Harry Potter.

"He was cleverer than you. A better wizard, a better man."

Someone gasped in the crowd; a light murmur of approval followed.

"I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!"

"You thought you did," Potter said, meeting the Dark Lord's eyes once more, "but you were wrong."

That was when it happened. Potter seemed to realise something; he stood up taller, his eyes locked onto Voldemort's and did not leave them again. There was no slumping of shoulders or admittance of defeat; Potter had just realised and accepted that there was no way out. He was going to die. His replies became quicker, more reckless; he was driving the Dark Lord towards the moment they all knew was coming.

And then they mentioned the Elder Wand, and a wry smile appeared on Potter's lips, a smile that said, I'm about to die for the most stupid reason ever. But the light in him hadn't yet been extinguished.

"Try for some remorse..."

This time it was Draco who gasped, and stepped back in shock; he bumped into the girl standing behind him, who gave him a filthy look before returning her attention to Potter. Who was still alive, pale and trembling but alive, miraculously still alive after what he had just said. He dove ahead, the words pouring mercilessly out of him, about Dumbledore, and Snape, and the Elder Wand, and Ollivander – Ollivander who had been locked up at Malfoy Manor –, and Dumbledore's death, until the sentence that made Draco feel light-headed and slightly ill.

"… the Elder Wand recognised a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will..."

No. It couldn't be.

"… never realising exactly what he had done, or that the world's most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance..."

Salazar, no.

"The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy."

It took all of three seconds for Draco to digest what this meant. Not that he had been the master of the Elder Wand – like something like that mattered anymore –, but that Potter had come very close to beating the Dark Lord. Over a wand. If he had had a wand in his hand, right now, he would have been able to face off anything the Dark Lord had to throw at him. Draco stared, stunned, at Potter's empty hands.

Voldemort had finally heard enough, or had listened to everything he wanted to know, or simply didn't care anymore; in any case, he stopped circling abruptly. Across from him, Potter also grew still, his entire body taut with apprehension. The Dark Lord raised his wand.

"It does not matter," he said, his voice deceptively soft. "None of it matters, Potter. You are going to die today."

Potter said nothing. There was nothing more to say. He stood, looking up at the Dark Lord without hesitation. The crowd shifted and stirred behind Draco as they realised what was going to happen.

"Why doesn't he take out his wand?" someone whispered, but they were quickly shushed by the rest of the crowd who seemed to have faith in Potter.

Then Potter dropped his gaze and looked to the side. Why exactly he did it, Draco didn't know, but he did, his eyes scanning the crowd for a familiar face, maybe someone that would bring comfort to him in the final moment...

He locked gazes with Draco.

In that instant, Draco lost control. A strange, inexplicable panic ripped through him and his body acted of its own accord. The Dark Lord brought his wand down, his mouth opening to scream out a curse, and Draco, all the while thinking No no no, broke away from the crowd and threw himself forward. Voldemort froze.

"POTTER!" someone screamed, and then Draco realised it was him.

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, his mother rushing through the crowd toward him, eyes wide with fear, screaming "Draco, Draco!", and he realised she had thought he was dead, and though it hurt, he turned away from her; she wouldn't make it in time anyway.

In a stupid, desperate gesture, he threw Goyle's wand at Potter.

Potter looked up at the arch it traced through the air, stunned, then down again, and for an infinitely short moment, their eyes met again. In that instant, Draco saw something in those eyes, something deep and powerful he couldn't begin to understand. Then the moment was over, and Potter's hand rose to pluck the wand out of the air with the easy skill of a Seeker. And suddenly Draco was the vulnerable one, the wandless one.

"You always were spineless, Draco," Voldemort remarked in that awful, cold voice, but Draco wasn't the one who held his attention at the moment; he turned his gaze back to Potter. "I can deal with him later, to take true possession of the Elder Wand. You came to me without a wand, Potter? Did you truly think you could defeat me?"

"I do now," Potter said, gripping the wand between his fingers very tightly. "It's over, Riddle. That wand in your hand will be useless against this one, because Malfoy isn't the master of the Elder Wand anymore. I beat you to it. I Disarmed him weeks ago. I am the true master of the Elder Wand."

Something shifted in the air between them; the dark enchanted sky of the ceiling above them was suddenly streaked with a flash of red as the first rays of the rising sun appeared, and Draco shielded his eyes with his hand, blinded for a moment. Two simultaneous screams rose and overlapped:

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Expelliarmus!"

There was another flash of light, but it wasn't the sun this time, it was the two spells shooting from their respective wands and colliding in a burst of golden flames. The Dark Lord's wand flew out of his hand, arching through the air towards Potter, who caught it just as he had caught the one Draco had thrown at him, and the Dark Lord himself collapsed, and then there was silence.

A deadly silence.