A/N
Hi…long time no see. This is really not my best work. I'm actually quite ashamed of it. It's nothing I should be doing, but the opening line invaded my head and this fic allowed itself to be written, which I am exceedingly grateful for as I've not been able to write a thing for months.
It's just a one shot, drabbleish thing, during the Deathly Hallows, which I think I quoted accidentally, and it's Drarry ^_^ Draco p.o.v -"you", "he" is of course, Harry. Reviews would be really appreciated. Like I said, first thing I've written in months, and I am aware I must be rusty.
Oh and I wanted to say a massive thank you to everyone who offered support about my hiatus note on FYD, and especially to the lovely Srienia, who has been endlessly supportive. ^_^
15/7 Hi just editing this at 1 a.m...cause disliked bits of it. Hope this flows better now!
J. K. Rowling, the amazing, wonderful, extremely talented owns anything you may recognize. I own nothing.
By The Stars
You think you can save him through sheer will alone, that you can make the universe bend to your will, the way you once believed it did.
Become the sun, make the world revolve around you, the way your moonlight parents once assured you was so.
You silently, desperately, beg the stars keep him safe, protect him, save him, please, please, I need him, I love him, please, save him, save him…
But the stars are
deaf
distant
careless.
They don't bow to any master, least of all
you
And anyway, it's he who is the hero, not you, and only heroes get to save anyone.
You once thought you were the villain, that your rivalry could surpass all else.
But the Fates care not for school boy quarrels, or the will or whims of a meddlesome, arrogant, spoilt, scared little boy.
The Fates care only for heroes and monsters and monumental magic and bravery.
And Love, you'd thought, maybe Love, like the stories your mother used to whisper to calm you in the dark…
But he doesn't love you.
How could he, after all you are and everything you've done- how could anyone love the sick little sycophantic slimy snake you've become. Slave to a madman and master of nothing.
But it doesn't stop you sending pleas and prayers into the night.
Doesn't stop you hoping that wherever he is, somewhere far away in that impenetrable darkness, he can see the stars. Can feel your prayers like armour against the cold.
/
And time has passed, though the days in your foggy brain are as thick and slow moving as treacle. And yet- time has passed, as time will invariably do, because here he is, on his knees before you, his face distorted but no less recognizably his for all that. His hair is longer, you dimly note. His clothes even shabbier than usual and he is far too thin. But his eyes, oh his eyes, they blaze more brilliantly than they ever have, as they stare at you, through you, with a mixture of fear and hate and revulsion and defiance and-no surely not, not-
Hope.
Like love, maybe there's a chance for you yet-
And your father asks you "Is it him?"with a manic mix of joy and fear, and oh you'd know him anywhere, don't you spend every waking sleeping aching moment dreaming, dreaming, dreaming of him?
And still he is looking at you like maybe you can be saved, though you know the time of saviours and souls and redemption passed long long ago,
And your father begs you with eyes so like your own, and you know to him, the betrayal of the boy on his knees before you means
redemption
as surely as mistaking him means
death.
like whispers in your ear in your father's, in your master's voice-
But he stares with a gaze like verdant fire and how can you refuse, who do you refuse-?
You stare at your father, the face so similar to yours. The man who is responsible for all you are, the man you once longed to be.
You glance down at the man before you.
Feel your heart break.
For either way you betray someone you love.
Your mother watches and waits and you know she, out of all gathered here; mad Aunt Bella, Father, Mudblood, Blood Traitor, Hero- understands your choice.
"I can't be certain." The untruthful uncertainty falls from your lips as though you have not memorized every pore on his face.
You don't know how to save a life.
But you already know how incapable you are of ending one.
/
And suddenly he is back, away from the cellar and you have no idea how he escaped- but he is the Hero, he is himself and the thought of him not escaping is ludicrous.
He wrenches your wand from your hand, and you think you hear him breathe a burning
Thank you
Before he vanishes.
And you think maybe, yes maybe there is hope for you after all.
/
There is fire, you will remember later. Fire that seemed to come from nowhere.
Pain
fear
heat
humiliation grief
exhilaration
fear
fear
fear
- for yourself but mostly for him.
You are surrounded by his scent, invading your brain and his voice somehow manages to permeate your ears above the Feindfyre's roar, the feel of his bony ribs as you clutch onto him for dear life is everything and nothing else matters and these goddamn heroics of his are going to haunt your dreams for decades.
(and you won't admit it but a tiny part of you is grateful for this, this last chance to touch him, imprint him onto your memory, no matter what happens next). \
And you can feel his heartbeat, pounding through the thin material of his shirt-
(it feels like home)
His too long hair tickles your nose and you want nothing more than to press your face into his neck and disappear from the world.
(just hold on a little longer don't let go-)
You fall to the floor and fleetingly think you feel his hand clutch yours, like he needs the reassurance you are here, alive, as surely as you need the same from him.
But then he is gone.
Gone, and you momentarily struggle how to remember to breathe.
But you have your pride and you have some small, pointless, insignificant purpose and it does not matter that he has left you.
He always leaves you.
/
Curses flash, blinding, and rubble falls and monsters roar and the ground shakes and faces blaze with
hate and
fear and
determination
And eyes once brilliant blaze brightest before they dim forever.
Death tastes like burning here.
The air is thick with a palpable terror.
He is lost to the battle as it rages, you cannot keep him in your sights and anyway, you search now for white blonde, not jet black.
Your parents are borderline evil, even in your opinion, and they are manipulative and power hungry and terrified and desperate and they love you and the last years have been worth nothing if you lose them now, at the final hurdle.
You struggle to see through smoke and despair and a desperate desire to close your eyes and collapse in on yourself, to see nothing ever again.
Forget it all, to forget everything but the brief and probably imagined feel of his warm hand on yours.
/
The silence is shockingly loud when it comes, when the awful, cold, familiar voice hisses the worst into the night.
He is dead.
He is dead.
He is dead.
And you wonder if your heart will ever beat the same again. If a heart so heavy, so cold, a heart that feels as if it's been simultaneously pierced by fangs and swords, Crucioed beyond recognition, burnt by Fiendfyre, frozen and thawed and melted and frozen once more and then stepped on and been rubbed in crushed glass-
Oh how can a heart that suffers so much, feels so twisted, so alien-
How can it ever feel as it once did, beating so consistently, so comfortingly, calmly with your chest?
And you glimpse your parents, as proud as ever, in the cluster behind the Dark Lord, and you see your father shaking slightly, but your beautiful mother looks calm. Fearless. From her you draw hope.
Feel your grief threatening to drown you but cling to the belief-
Oh he is the Hero of this story remember and heroes simply do not die like insignificant mortal men, no, no, maybe- maybe- we can all be saved, oh please, please,
save him-
There is a snake somehow flying through the air, and fire, and chaos once more and the world may never be right again, how can it when such chaos reins?
And you hear the Oaf yelling his name, increasingly desperate and you dare think louder maybe, maybe-
He
Lives.
/
When it ends, you think you may have heard him say your name and you think back to all those times you let him get the better of you, remember the burning thank you and dare to dream things went right after all and the world is as it's meant to be-
Though the world, your world, the world you were sure was meant all for you, will never be the same again.
Cocooned in between your stunned and still shaking parents, the future stretches out before you, tremulous and equally terrifying and exhilarating- because after all, whatever you may have done, you are all alive, as is he.
And you think you hear a familiar swishing whisper on the marble floor behind you, catch a whiff of a scent you carry within you, a momentary warmth in the air-
You think you hear his voice murmur something low and indecipherable, and you know it's not over yet.
And you have hope.
Because you breathe and he breathes and nothing is certain.
And after all, the stars have answered your prayers.