Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world belongs to the great mind of J.K. Rowling. It does not belong to me in any way; I am simply borrowing her characters.
Harry Potter stands in the middle of all the rubbish that is the ruins of Hogwarts. He breathes with difficulty, his chest rising and falling quite obviously with effort. He breathes in the scent of wind-carried drying blood — whose it is no longer matters, "good" blood mixes with "bad" blood and Harry knows now the lack of distinction between the two. Giving himself a shake and glancing up, Harry sees only blue sky. The castle walls that had risen so spectacularly in the days before the War now lay crumbled around him. In the aftermath of the War, Harry Potter surveys the hopeless scene around him, searching for any remaining survivors, though he is almost positive that there are none left. Harry Potter surveys the dying fires, the rising smoke, the fallen rubble — the remains of all he has known — for any sign of life. His eyes note the shredded clothing lying about, the pale arms stretched out from beneath boulders, the empty eyes staring from lifeless bodies. The War has left so much destruction.
As everyone had predicted, Harry has saved the wizarding world. Not that there was much to save by the end, but save it he did. Countless students and classmates had become casualties of war, were taken and killed by Death Eaters, or had simply vanished without a trace. Whole families were targeted and murdered, including the Weasleys, most of whom were killed ruthlessly at their makeshift home just outside of Birmingham. Ginny had been one of the first to go. Harry had felt guilty for a long time after hearing this. He tried not to think of her now. The remaining Horcruxes were found and destroyed, taking Lupin and McGonagall with them. Harry's best friends, Ron and Hermione, had been killed in the last battle. Ron had fallen from a grave leg injury and Hermione had knelt to help him. They had both been Avada Kedavra-ed. Most of the Order had perished as well, some time or other during the long war. However, though their side had lost many, so had the dark side. The most dangerous Death Eaters were now dead, including Fenrir Greyback, Lucius Malfoy, and Bellatrix Black, whom Harry had killed himself in vengeance for his godfather. If he thought it would ease his pain, he was sorely mistaken — he had only felt the burden of having yet another death on his hands. When Harry had finally come to face Voldemort, he was not surprised to see that he looked the same. Whereas Harry had suffered wounds and scars from fighting his own battles, Voldemort's battles had been largely fought by his faithful Death Eaters and was therefore exactly as he had been after Wormtail's rebirthing potion: tall, thin, and so unnaturally snake-like. This Voldemort, however, was significantly more crazed due to the realisation that his precious Horcruxes had been destroyed. He had not believed it possible for the great Lord Voldemort to be conquered, wherein lay his weakness. Harry had killed him with the Avada Kedavra, had concentrated on using the Unforgivable with all the hate he possessed within himself. Voldemort's death had been the last of the War.
Harry walks among the wreckage, holding his wand out in front of him as a precaution against any crazed Death Eaters. "Hello?" he ventures, his voice sounding as tired as he feels. He is positive that there will be no replies, yet he continues to walk along, a part of him hoping against hope that someone will answer. After so much death, finding anyone alive would be a great relief. He keeps his eyes open for any sign of movement as he scans the desolate scene, utilizing the skills that have been sharpened during the war.
Harry searches for hour after lengthy hour, calling out until his throat feels dry and looking around until his eyes feel gritty from the dust. Just as he is about to leave for St. Mungo's to report that there are no more survivors, something twitches from the corner of his right eye. "Who's there?" he calls, changing direction slightly, heading for the stirring in the still. He hears a moan and he hastens towards it. When he finally sees the source, he stops suddenly.
Lying beside the corpse of Gregory Goyle (with Vincent Crabbe not far off) is Draco Malfoy. The same Draco Malfoy who had teased him at school, who had led the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, who had as good as killed Dumbledore. Harry remembers all this and tries to conjure up the old dislike for normality's sake, but of course, the world is no longer normal. Really, Harry Potter is just sick and tired of all the fighting and all the deaths and all he feels now is a rush of relief that someone he knows is still alive, even if it is Malfoy, Death Eater or not. It is more obvious now than ever that the world consists of not the black and white that would make everything so simple, but of grey. Prying a large slab of stone off of Draco's legs, Harry remembers how young he was — how young they both were — and how foolish he was to have wasted his time on a petty school rival. There were far more important things on which he could have spent his time. Of course, at nineteen they are both still considered young, but Harry feels much older than the number dictates. Brushing off some of the dust in Draco's hair, Harry stares at his old nemesis. He is thin, starved like so many by the war. So thin, in fact, that he is all angles; his cheekbones are like steel blades and his face comes to an end at a perfect spike, much pointier than the face Harry remembers from his school days. Draco Malfoy's old glory, his fine blond hair, is now lank and dirty, greying in the ash and dust. His grey eyes are open and moving, and glazed as though he is trapped somewhere he cannot escape, somewhere deep inside where no one else can reach. While his paleness was once aristocratic, it now makes him look sickly, though that may be the effect of the obvious broken leg bones and the fact that his head is bleeding slightly. Grabbing hold of Draco's too-thin arm, Harry Disapparates with a crack!
At Harry's home, he lays Draco Malfoy upon his bed. Grabbing a towel to wipe away the blood, he notices that Draco is not bleeding after all and that it must have been someone else's blood. His legs are, in fact, broken though, so he mends the bones with one of the healing spells that he had learnt over the course of the war. He then reaches for the Dreamless Sleep Potion from his medicine cabinet and tips it into Draco's mouth, causing the blond-haired boy to promptly close his eyes and relax his body.
Now that Harry knows that Draco is not in any sort of critical situation, he snatches up Draco's arm and pushes down the sleeve brusquely. There it is. It is faint and barely there, but Harry can see the mark on his forearm, the mark that he would have mistaken for a dirt smudge if he didn't know it was the Dark Mark. Looking down at it, Harry surprisingly does not feel the rush of anger he expected. He merely adds it to his knowledge, pulls the sleeve down, and places the arm in its original position.
After pulling the chair from the opposite side of the room towards the bed, Harry sits down in it. He conjures up a glass of water and watches the slumbering form in front of him. Harry feels that this is actually rather nice; ever since he went to Hogwarts his life had been filled with people that cared for him. It's nice to be able to care for others for once.
Looking at Draco's face, he remembers again how he had once stomped on his face, how he had campaigned against him in the Triwizard Tournament, how he used to insult his friends. But Harry also remembers the small boy swallowed by black robes in Madam Malkin's, the pitiful figure who cried to Moaning Myrtle, the young man who lowered his wand upon facing Dumbledore.
Sipping his water, Harry recalls a boy running around Hogwarts with his two best friends and is suddenly unsure whether that boy is himself or Draco. He inspects Draco with a scrutinizing eye. For someone that Harry once thought was so different from himself, they are strikingly alike. In some ways, they are still very different. Draco is as fair as Harry is dark, and they are at first glance the antitheses of the each other. But look a bit longer and one notices the same build and the similar height. Though they've been on different sides for so long, their fates have been the same. Each has lost dear friends and has no one else left. It doesn't matter that Harry "won" and that Draco "lost." It only matters that they are strangely similar.
When Draco wakes, he will be able to wear Harry's clothes and have them fit perfectly. For some unfathomable reason, Harry likes this. He's never known anyone be so like himself before.