Author's Note: So I felt the need to write something angsty involving my OTP. Suggestions are much appreciated because even though I love angst, I SUCK AT WRITING IT! So, without further ado, here it is.
At the end of the Final Battle, Draco was elated. They'd won! Everything they'd fought for, it was all a possibility now! He could be with Harry and they could have that little cottage they'd planned to have on a cliff along the ocean where no one would find them. They could have a puppy. Draco wanted a German Shepherd. They were big and strong, but softies at heart, much like Harry and Draco themselves. They could adopt some war orphans—now that he thought about it, he remembered he'd seen both Lupin and his wife die. He brushed a stray tear from his eye—Lupin wouldn't want him to cry over him. Maybe he and Harry could take care of the little Metamorphmagus. Teddy was Harry's godson and Draco's first cousin once removed. They had a duty to take care of him.
Draco thought of all the changes that would occur. He and Severus would be viewed as heroes for spying. The Mother Weasel and the She-Weasel would stop pressuring Harry to marry the She-Weasel. Harry would ban all of the anti-Werewolf laws in addition to other laws that were unfair to magical creatures. They would get joined, and they could move away to their house by the sea with their adopted children and German Shepherd. The place would be Unplottable, and the press would be unable to find them.
Draco sighed—their life would be so perfect. Harry and he would finally be happy, away from all the people and all of their demands.
Just then it hit him. The war was over. Harry had said that once it was done, the first thing he would do would be to come find Draco and kiss him to let the world know where he belonged. It was over, but Harry wasn't here. Harry wasn't kissing him.
Trying to ignore the rising panic, Draco set off at a dead run looking for the Savior. Finally he reached the outermost limits of where the fighting had reached. There lie the bodies of Voldemort and his closest supporters, Draco's own parents among them. A few feet away lay Harry's.
Filled with trepidation, Draco approached the unmoving body. Harry couldn't be dead. He couldn't be! They'd planned every detail of their lives together, and it had always been 'if we win' not 'if we live'. Losing Harry was a terrible price to pay for winning the war. Draco threw himself down beside Harry and clutched at his unmoving chest, his rapidly cooling skin. "No…" he whispered, "no…HARRY!" His heart-wrenching scream reverberated around the surrounding land, and those that heard it would later swear that it was the sound of a heart breaking, that terrible, all-encompassing despair.
Draco lay there for hours, and even when they came to take the Savior's body away to prepare for burial, he protested unintelligibly.
It was over. They'd won the war. But Harry Potter lay dead.