They could not die.
Not here.
That was the problem.
Their wands were gone, their magic was bound, and the surveillance spells prevented suicide or murder.
It's not that Voldemort minded when they killed each other. Not at all. He just wanted it to happen in front of him. That's why they couldn't die outside of the Arena.
The war was lost, years ago. The Muggle world had been destroyed, utterly and completely. The wizard world was the only thing remaining – but it had been transformed into a terrifying playground of Voldemort's making. And all of those who had fought in the last war, were turned into Voldemort's playthings. Even him. Even though he didn't fight all that much. More like, defected from Voldemort in fear – only to become one of his puppets.
He called them Gladiators. Voldemort certainly had an appreciation of Muggle history. Must come with being a half-blood, Draco thought darkly. His entire body ached. His thoughts were disordered and confused. There was blood on his hands – and for a few minutes, he couldn't remember whose. Oh yes, Ron Weasley's. He had killed Ron Weasley earlier today in the Arena, while Voldemort and his henchmen watched and applauded.
If someone had told him five years ago that one day he would kill Ron Weasley, he would have laughed for joy. Today, he wished he had died instead.
He did not remember how Voldemort had convinced them to start fighting. It was no potion, no Imperius. Just... pure persuasion. He had tortured a little boy in front of them first time they had declined. What was his name? Teddy or something? Some ridiculous Muggle name. Then there were others. The second time they declined, it was worse. And eventually they fought. They all did. Every single one of them. Even Ginny Weasley. Even Hermione Granger. Even Luna Lovegood.
They tried fighting against Voldemort, of course – and found, to their utter astonishment, that swords and spears did not do much to penetrate the shield of magical energy surrounding the Arena. And now... Draco wondered if any of them even remembered why they were fighting. Maybe not. Maybe it was just instinct now. Maybe the reasons no longer mattered.
Draco buried his face in his bloodied hands and groaned quietly. Why couldn't he die? He had been trying to die – for so long. He wasn't even that good of a fighter. He was average, really. The others were good... good enough to kill him, if they wanted to. But instead, they, the others, always tricked him. Always found a way to die. To let him kill them. He hated them for that.
He heard unsteady footsteps behind him. A naked body slumped on the ground next to him. He looked at the young man whom he hadn't seen in few days. His muscular lean body was covered in scars and bruises. His mattered hair had blood in it. There was blood on his hands, too. The dark green eyes had a dangerous glow in them.
"Who did you kill today?" Draco asked quietly.
"Lovegood," Harry said.
Draco almost choked at the words. He never liked Luna much – but ... the thought of Harry killing her was for some reason utterly unbearable. Even though Harry had killed most of the others. More than anyone else.
"I am sorry," Draco offered uncertainly.
"Don't be. It's good. It was quick. She wanted to die."
Of course she did, Draco thought bitterly. Who wouldn't?
Harry's breathing grew even and calm, as he lay on his back and stared upwards vacantly.
"Who else is left?" Draco asked tiredly.
"No-one," Harry said calmly. "We are the last ones. And after tomorrow... there will only be one."
Right, Draco thought bitterly. Just one lucky winner, to spend the rest of his life, at Voldemort's mercy. Doing his bidding. Under Imperius, or by pure persuasion. Who knows? Draco glanced at Harry – his face was absolutely impassive.
"How do you feel?" Draco asked quietly.
"Fine," Harry said absently.
Draco lifted himself off the ground and straddled Harry's body, looking down at him. Harry stared up, green eyes absolutely cold. And then, to Draco's utter shock, strong hands embraced him and drew him close, and a kiss – an absolutely passionate kiss happened of its own accord.
Draco's hands caressed the firm, sculpted body underneath him, trailing every scar and every injury. Harry's eyes were now shut and a look of absolute pleasure crossed his face. On an impulse, Draco reached to his hips and lifted them, finding his opening, thrusting his fingers into it. Harry did not make a sound – his breathing only grew louder and heavier. Without much deliberation, Draco bent Harry's legs in the knees and thrust into him. Harry's entire body shuddered at the pain of the ungentle penetration, but he did nothing to stop him, or push him off. Draco continued moving inside him, his hands caressing the tired weary face of his nemesis, as if trying to erase the signs of pain he was causing with every thrust. He climaxed abruptly, and to his shock, he saw that Harry had too, without even being touched. Draco pulled out of him and leaned over him again. To his own surprise, Draco realized that he was crying, his tears dropping right onto Harry's face. Harry looked up and and smiled at him. His smile was gentle and almost innocent – the way it used to be years ago.
"Ah, wonderful," Harry said dreamily and shifted painfully to his side. Draco looked down and saw blood on his thigh. "Just what I needed. How can I ever thank you?"
"Do you want to die?" Draco asked impulsively.
Harry laughed at the question. "Do you even need to ask?"
He supposed he didn't. Not here. "Tell me," he demanded anyways.
"Of course I do," Harry admitted freely. "So much... I did from the moment we started fighting. But – the others... they seemed to need it more. I let them go before me."
Draco looked at him in astonishment. Harry was not like him – he wasn't tricked. Day after day, for years, he did the unthinkable, the unforgivable, to save the others from fate that was far worse than death. And at the end of it all, nobody would ever thank him, and nobody would ever forgive him – because, at the end, nobody would be left.
"You can thank me," Draco said dryly. "Tomorrow, when we fight – let me win."
Harry smiled bitterly. "No," he said. "I won't."
Harry's arms wrapped around him and drew him in, making Draco settle against his chest. Draco relaxed and sobbed quietly in the embrace of the man who would kill him tomorrow.
"Before this - I would have," Harry whispered gently. "But now... I've seen it in your eyes. You want to go, more than anyone else ever did. Even more than any of the others. I can't blame you."
Harry's words brought a wave of utterly selfish relief with them, and Draco leaned into his embrace blissfully – feeling an overwhelming urge to thank him – or beg for forgiveness – or perhaps both.
"Harry," he asked weakly. "After all of this – how will you live?"
Arms held him even tighter.
"I won't," Harry said quietly. "It won't be a life. Not really. It will be something else."